Heroes
by Shai Ryder
Summary: a Hornblower/Scarlet Pimpernel crossover! R&R!
1. Default Chapter

-This is another "HoratioJAM" written by posters on the A&E fan fiction board (which is now dead)

-This is another "HoratioJAM" written by posters on the A&E fan fiction board (which is now dead).There are no real chapters here so I'll split it up into about 3 parts.This is a SCARLET PIMPERNEL/HORATIO HORNBLOWER crossover!So, just to tell you J

Heroes 

By: Blackthorn, papergrl74, capital, dogwatch, Kiddo39

When the sword whistled over his head, Hornblower managed to duck just in time. As it was, his luck and instinct had managed to save him once more. Bolting to his feet, he jumped away from another blow. Before his opponent could land another blow, he turned his shoulder into the man and shoved him across the deck as hard as he was able. While he reganied his breath, he took the chance and looked over his shoulder. He could see Matthews and Styles forcing their way onto the quarterdeck with the help of some of the ship's company, but still they were outnumbered. If they did not take the ship soon, they would all be lost.  
  
However did this happen? he wondered as he raised his pistol and fired at a French seaman. The man fell to the deck and Hornblower turned his attention back to the fray. It had been a good plan and one that should have been frightfully easy. Board the Citoyen under the cover of darkness and, as they had done so often in the past, cut her out and take her for England. Somewhere along the line they had horribly miscalculated. The French had been ready for them, but instead of coming right out and fighting, had let them board and waited until they made their move. Now, the plan was in tatters. Hornblower cursed anything and anyone he could think of. The one time for his nearly legendary luck to fail him.  
  
Turning, he hurried across the deck toward Archie Kennedy who had just shot one of the Citoyen's senior officers and now found himself engaged with another. ducking, Hornblower threw off the man who was charging toward him, then continued on. Suddenly, he slipped on the blood slick deck and slammed into the railing. Grunting in pain, he turned and pulled himself to his feet. A pistol shot rang out and the wood railing splintered no more than an inch away from his left ear. Quickly he turned and found himself face to face with the captain of the Citoyen. The elder man held another pistol and had it aimed directly between Hornblower's eyes. Another shot rang out and the man picthed forward. Hornblower watched him fall, then loked back up. A tall dark haired man stood no more than five feet away from him. He was dressed extremly well, all in black with a beautifully tied cravat at his neck. Hornblower could not help but frown in confusion. The man took two strides forward and grabbed Hornblower and pulled him to his feet. Before he could managed a thank you the man spun around and fired another shot.  
  
"Try not to hit my men!", he cried over the din. The man did not reply, but stepped further into the battle. Hornblower followed and in what seemed like the blink of an eye the two men were standing back to back fending off a half a dozen french sailors.  
  
"Sir, it's ours!", he heard Matthews shout from somewhere behind him. Almost immediately the French dropped their weapons and surrendered. Hornblower was not sure what had just happened, but it appeared, for the moment at least, that his luck had returned.  
  
Moving toward the quarterdeck he was keenly aware of the tall man following him. He looked up at Kennedy and smiled.  
  
"All secure Mr. Kennedy?", he asked as he wiped sweat from his brow. Kennedy nodded and offered him a salute. Hornblower gave Matthews and Styles his orders as Kennedy hurried down the steps to join him.  
  
"A friend of yours Horatio?", Kennedy asked and turned to the tall man at Hornblower's left. Horatio scowled.  
  
"I can only hope so Archie.", he replied, then held out his hand.  
  
"Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower of His Majesty's Frigate Indefatigable, this is Lieutenant Archie Kennedy.", he introduced quickly. The man smiled and nodded before turning his attention to Archie. Archie nodded as well, thinking that this man looked awfully familiar. With a grand gesture the man bowed deeply.  
  
"Percy Blakeney, at your service my dear Lieutenant Hornblower.".

My God! Percy, Percy Blakeney!" Archie said dumbfounded. Then he turned to an even more astonished Horatio.  
  
"This is my neighbor. Well he was until he moved away to the city," Archie said with a smile, the memories coming back to him.  
  
Percy laughed as he regarded the two British officers.  
"Oh Archie, you haven't changed a bit. I had heard you were in the navy, but here?"  
  
Horatio stood uncomfortably watching the two men converse. Somehow he didn't quite trust this stranger. Something about him was not quite right.   
Archie was all smiles now as he introduced Percy to Horatio.   
"Horatio, did you know that Percy saved my life once."  
He shrugged," No, I did not."  
  
"Oh Archie, you call getting Miss Plumb to not marry you, saving you?"  
  
Archie laughed," Yes, especially after I saw her in-laws!"  
  
This brought another round of laughter.  
Horatio faked a smile as he announced," I need to tend to the men. Please excuse me."  
  
"Certainly," Percy replied as he watched him head aft.  
Turning back to Archie he commented," I hope he isn't like that all the time?"  
"No," Archie sighed," He is just doing his duty."  
  
"Oh," he answered, wondering what Hornblower was thinking about him.   
"I must attend to my duties as well, but it was great to see you again Percy," Archie said eagerly.  
  
Percy smiled. "Yes you too Archie." He watched Archie join Horatio and wished he could hear what they were saying about him.

Styles winced in pain as he got to his feet. The sharp pain in his back told him something was wrong, terribly wrong. He reached a hand behind him and tried to massage the sore spot.   
  
Matthews saw this and quickly went to his friend's side. "Are you all right lad?"  
  
Styles grunted in pain as every move seemed to ignite the pain even more. "I don't know. I know I didn't get shot."  
Matthews stood behind Styles and studied his back. Placing a hand gently on his spine he pressed down. "Does this hurt?"  
  
A whimper escaped his lips as the pain exploded through his back and down his legs. "YES!"  
  
Matthews frowned as he took his hand away. "You didn't fall did you?"  
  
Styles gingerly sat down on a barrel as he thought back to the battle. "Come to think of it, I was pushed backwards. But it didn't hurt any."  
  
"Oh dear," Matthews sighed. "I knew someone that did that once. Hurt their back so badly they couldn't walk for 4 months."  
  
"Four months!!!" Styles blurted out in disbelief. He stared down at the deck in amazement.  
  
Matthews patted him on the shoulder, trying to ease his pain. "Maybe it will only be 3 months."  
  
Styles growled and cast his angry gaze about the newly captured ship. Horatio and Archie seemed to be conversing with a someone. Someone who was not part of their crew. "Who is that?" he asked pointing his question to Matthews. "I dunno," was all he could say.  
"Better get back to the Indy and let the doctor take a look at that."  
  
Styles only sneared and tried to stand up gracefully. Instead he had to grab the rail and pull himself up. Now he couldn't even stand up straight. Hunched over like a old man, he slowly limped toward Archie and Horatio. Matthews watched with a twinkle in his eye and swallowed the laughter that was threatening to escape his mouth.

"Calis-lis-thenics?" Styles exploded. Catching Hornblower's eye, he reddened slightly and pitched his voice lower. "Calis...uh, sir?"  
  
"Not now, no indeed," the doctor, one very young and earnest Harry Frick, assured him. "You'll have to stay down here, flat on your back, for a good while. But, in the future, I think a regular round of morning calisthenics would prove of great benefit for the ship's company. They're rather novel--they improve circulation and posture."  
  
"Sir--"Styles glanced at Hornblower, who nodded a bit absently. Turning to the doctor, Styles tried to keep his voice from wavering, "I don't even know what calisthen--calis--I don't know what they are."  
  
Matthews snickered as the young doctor launched into an elaborate display. Hornblower rose to his feet and walked to the entrance of the sick berth, past the other wounded men. On the way, he turned to address one A.B., Davies, who was groggily recovering from a concussion, but a black figure caught his eye. Percy Blakeney, as dapper as ever.   
  
With a fluid bow, Blakeney saluted Hornblower. "Captain Hornblower, I was wondering if I may be of assistance."  
  
Hornblower did his best to reprocate the handsome good will radiating from Blakeney, and did manage, in part, to dilute the frown that edged onto his face.   
  
"The doctor will best direct you." And, with a painfully strained smile and a "Thank-you, Blakeney," Hornblower strode past him, to his quarters.  
  
What was it about Blakeney that irked him? Was it the clothes? How did the man manage to breeze through a skirmish and subsequent upheaval without creasing his cravat? Beau Brummell himself would be put to shame. And he had obviously excelled at his dancing lessons--he had superb poise and balance, even when the sea pitched something awful.   
  
Hornblower rebuked himself as he entered his berth. Whether Percy Blakeney was in fact a life-size waxwork was neither here nor there--the question remained about his presence on the French ship. That was highly suspicious. And he dressed rather French, too.   
  
Gritting his teeth, Hornblower resolved to forget about the adamant polish on Blakeney's shoes, and to send for Kennedy.

When Archie was nowhere to be found, Horatio went in search of him. It would not be a long search, the Citoyen was not a large ship. When he stepped onto the deck he could hear laughter somewhere in front of him. it came as little surprise when he discovered Archie standing near the bow of the ship leaning aganist the railing. Beside him stood Blakeney, his back to Horatio. Horatio sighed deeply and strode toward them.  
  
"...and that was when I said, madame, at least I will be sober in the morning.", Blakeney finished. Archie chuckled, then stopped abruptly when he caught sight of Horatio. Blakeney looked over his shoulder slightly as Archie approached his senior officer.  
  
"Archie, a word, please.". Archie bowed to Blakeney then fell into stride beside Horatio.  
  
"Problem?", he began. Horatio did not stop walking until they were well away from Blakeney.  
  
"I should think. I know he's a friend of yours, but I find it rather odd, Blakeney being aboard a French vessel.", he announced. Archie stopped for a moment, his eyes lighting up.  
  
"He could be a spy.", Horatio continued. Archie bit his bottom lip fiercely, then shook his head slightly.  
  
"Rubbish, Blakeney's no spy!", he insisted, wondering when Horatio had gotten so paranoid. He had to admit, he did wonder about Blakeney's presence aboard the Citoyen, but he figured a man as important as Blakeney could have had a dozen reasons.  
  
"Horatio, you don't know Sir Percey Blakeney. He is one of the richest men in England and he happens to be one of Prince George's closest friends. He's a fop, a dandy, but I can guarantee he is no spy.", Archie explained. As he spoke Horatio had turned to Blakeney. The man was pacing back and forth leisurely, looking up at the stars. For a dandy, the man fought very well.  
  
"Besides, if you want to know what he was doing on this ship, why don't you ask him?", Archie continued. Horatio nodded absently. Before either man could move Matthews ran toward them.  
  
"Sir, ships astern!", he cried. Horatio spun around and squinted into the darkness.  
  
"Damn!", he hissed, then ran for the quarterdeck with Matthews and Archie following.  
  
"Archie, get Blakeney below decks, I will not have a civillian, especially a friend of Prince George's in any danger!", he ordered shaply. Archie pulled up quickly and nodded. As he hurried to follow orders he wondered just what kind of bee had flown into Horatio's hat.  
  
Horatio pulled out his eye glass and turned his attention to the rear of the ship. There they were, two French ships closing in on them... fast. They were still miles away from the rendevous with the Indy. This was going to be close.

Archie approached his friend who had been watching him ever since Horatio had interrupted their laugh. Percy could tell something was wrong by Archie's look. "What is it?"  
  
"Horatio, I mean Mr. Hornblower has ordered me to take you below," he said feeling awkward. Percy smiled. "Well then you better take me below." Archie's frown was replaced by a smile as he led the way. The ship wasn't very big and Archie decided the best place for Percy was in the hold. As they entered the dark room, Archie lit a candle. "Sorry Percy but Horatio doesn't want a civilian on his deck. Well not with the French following us."  
  
Percy moved some rope off a crate and sat down. "I understand. I just hope Mr. Hornblower doesn't think I am a French spy."  
  
With those words Archie looked at him puzzled. "Percy, why were you on that ship?"  
  
"Well, as you know I am good friend's with old George. He asked me to be a diplomat and see if I could talk some sense into the frogs."  
  
A sigh of relief escaped Archie's lips. Percy caught this and began to laugh out loud. "Oh my! Archie, you seriously thought I was a spy!" Archie too began to laugh. "Well the thought did cross my mind."  
  
Their laughter was once again interrupted but this time by the distant sound. Archie turned to leave but called out to Percy," Cannon fire, Horatio will need me. Stay here Percy!" And with that Percy sat staring at the tiny candle as it flickered in the dark.   
  
Styles strained to see where the cannon fire had come from. The pain in his back suddenly exploded once again and he cringed in agony.   
  
Matthews came up behind him, knowing he was trying to hide his injury. "Styles," he began concerned," why don't know you go below. At least until we get back to the Indy."  
  
Styles grunted as he struggled to his feet. "No. I can't leave. I have to do my duty. You need me right now."  
  
Oldroyd joined them, noticing that Styles couldn't stand up straight. "You okay?"  
Styles didn't care to let anyone else know how hurt he was and went to smack Oldroyd. But lifting his arm sent the pain shooting through his entire backside. He fell to the deck clinching his fists, as the pain grew more intense.  
  
Quickly Matthews and Oldroyd escorted Styles below, all the time listening to him protest. As they entered the hold Percy stood up to greet them. "Good, company," he said warmly and helped get Styles into a hammock.   
Matthews gave one last look at his friend. "Take care of him."  
Percy nodded in understanding and watched the two sailors go. Turning his attention back to the big man he commented," Looks like we may be down here a while. Think you can play cards?"  
  


"Begging your pardon--" Styles was cut off at that instant by another muffled boom. It was louder than the ones they had heard but a few moments earlier.  
  
"Is that us or them?" Blakeney asked.  
  
"That's the Frogs, sir." Styles peered at the handsome man beside his hammock. Oldroyd had said that Percy Blakeney, had been on the Citoyen when they had taken her, but Oldroyd (and Matthews and Styles) had been preoccupied at the time, and none of them had remarked upon this. Now that Styles was holed up with the Blakeney cove, he couldn't help but wonder if the man was Roast Beef or a Froggie. He squinted more intently, and a few more thuds boomed out overhead.  
  
"Those are closer. Are we firing?"  
  
"I don't think so, sir. We'd likely hear it louder, and our gun carriages besides." Styles twisted in his hammock uncomfortably, wincing as a few more knives ground into his spine. He'd always done his duty up top, it pained him to be cossetted down below like a big baby, and really, he had no idea what was going on. The only thing that he could think to do was to keep talking, to distract Blakeney, in case the man was a Frenchie and plotting to slit his throat and then run up and stab Hornblower. But, if he, Styles, kept the man talking--indeed, this sounded like a ruse. Styles cheered at the prospect of being somewhat useful.  
  
"What is he doing, then? Shouldn't he be firing back?" Percy exclaimed. "Do you think that I--"  
  
"Well, now, sir, the captain always has a cunning plan...and how about them cards?"  
  
  
Hornblower, at the stern, stared at the two ships firing at them. Confound those Frenchies--they were still wasting their shot, but by less and less a margin, and his own men were getting anxious. The Indy was still a few miles ahead, probably a half-hour away. The wind was keeping steady, but the night was falling fast.  
  
Turning to midships, Hornblower called for more sail. With any luck, they might steal the frog's wind. Their boats were better gunned, but the Citoyen might prove more fleet. Of course, he might always try to disapear in the gloom, and then serve one of them with a crushing broadside--a great number of daring plans whipped through Hornblower's mind, but he shelved them quickly. The French simply had more shot. As it stood, his stern guns were probably a good match for the French forecastle ones, but a lucky shot could cripple the Citoyen to a halt, and the French ships would bear down upon her, and the Indy would be too far away.  
  
"Kennedy!" he bellowed, whipping around. Another shot rang out, but this one was not followed by a splash. Kennedy dashed up, followed by Matthews.  
  
"Sir--"  
  
Hornblower called out to four of his men, ordering them to the pumps. "Kennedy, go to the hold, check the damage and--" here, he thought of Styles and that Blakeney man, though they were stowed further ahead--"cheerily, Kennedy."  
  
"Aye, sir!" Kennedy nodded and darted away.  
  
"Matthews--" Hornblower glanced up at the sails. They were very taut. The wind was picking up. Two shots splashed into the sea to his left, a close miss. How much canvas could the Citoyen bear?  
  
"More sail! Top-gallants!"

The strange crashing sound made Blakeney and Styles stop in mid play of the cards. Blakeney gave his partner a questioning look. Before Styles could comment he spoke. "I better check that out," he stated as he set his cards on the barrel they had made into a makeshift table.   
"Wait! Sir!" Styles called out to the retreating man's back. But he didn't stop and disappeared into the dark hold.   
"Great! This is just bloody great! I am down here with this frog and can't do a bloody thing about it!"  
Styles squirmed in the hammock trying to sit up. Every tiny movement was met with agonizing pain. With one loud grunt he forced himself up. Breathing hard he looked about the small hold and heard something. Something he had heard before. It was the sound of water rushing into the hole he knew the cannon ball had made just a few moments before.   
"Where is that blasted frog!" he muttered under his breath. Gingerly he swung one leg out of the hammock followed by the other. The pain was not as bad if he moved slowly. Pushing forward he tried to stand but his aching muscles failed him and he crumpled to the wooden floor. Lying on his side he forced his rapid breathing to slow down. "Think Styles, think!"  
  
Suddenly he felt the icy touch of cold seawater. "Sir! Mr. Whatever your name is! Someone help me!" he cried out, as panic started to take hold. He couldn't swim and in his present shape he would surely drown. The water was getting higher as he recognized the sounds of the pumps being worked. Little good it would do him in the frigid water. He closed his eyes and silently prayed for a miracle.  
  
"Heavens! What are you doing down there, my good man?" a familiar voice rang out. Styles opened his eyes and saw Blakeney standing over him with a huge grin spread across his handsome face.   
  
"I'm taking a bath! What does it look like I am doing!"  
  
Blakeney laughed as he reached down and pulled the stiff man to his feet. "Can you walk?" he asked, still smiling at him.   
  
Through clenched teeth Styles spat," Of course I can walk! Next I'm going to beat you to a pulp!"   
  
Uproarious laughter escaped Blakeney as he and Styles made their way to the men working the pumps. "I like a man with a sense of humor. I'm sorry I didn't catch your name earlier."   
  
Styles eased onto a barrel and regarded the strange frog. Either he was beginning to like this bloke or the pain was causing his brain to malfunction. Not waiting for Styles he thrust out his hand. "Percy Blakeney at your service."   
  
Styles shook his hand as he replied," Styles, temporarily out of service." Percy erupted again in laughter as Styles decided this frog was a good frog. At least for now.

Archie looked over his shoulder as he and one of the men furiously worked the pump. Blakeney nodded slightly as he pulled off his long coat and cast it aside.  
  
"Gentlemen, I hate to say it, but I believe the Citoyen is a lost cause.", Blakeney observed, regarding the water that was rapidly rising around his boots. Archie shook his head. Not that he did not agree with Blakeney's opinion, but he could not leave until Horatio gave the word. He did not have to explain this to Percy. Blakeney looked at each of the men before him then turned and sloshed his way toward the steps and disappeared onto the deck.  
  
Above, Horatio was doing his best to fend off the pursuing ships. Only a few more mintues and then they would be safe.  
  
"C'mon.", he urged the darkness before him. Other than cannon fire, there was no answer.  
  
"Excuse me Captain.", Percy's voice asked from behind him. Horatio grit his teeth.  
  
"Not now Blakeney.", he shot back, nowing he was not exactly addressing the man properly. He figured he could make apologies if they managed to make it out of this alive.  
  
"Terribly sorry to trouble you Captain, but I think it would be best if abandoned ship.", Percy offered, ignoring Horatio's last statement. Horatio spun around on him, the anger in his face unmistakeable.  
  
"Sir Percy, what makes you think that if we cannot outrun the French here we can aboard a jolly boat?", he demanded. Incredibly, Percy smiled.  
  
"I should think a jolly boat is better than the alternative.", he replied just as another cannon roared overhead. Horatio turned as the shot hit the water less than a foot away from the Citoyen. Percy remained non-plussed. The two men looked at each other for a few moments then Horatio turned to Matthews.  
  
"Abandon ship.", he said simply and stormed away. Percy turned to Matthews and the two of them went about making the jolly boat ready.

"Tell the men at the pump Abandon Ship," Hornblower barked at one of the midshipmen. The reefer nodded and dashed away down into the hold.  
  
Hornblower gave a few more orders and strode to the powder room. The jolly boat was nearly ready, and the injured men were brought on deck, and his duties were nearly fulfilled, and still, he could not shake off his fury. He should have noticed that the Citoyen would not make it to the Indy--but it was Percy Blakeney who had taken the initiative in this case. Also, had the sails been increased earlier...  
  
Now was not the time for regrets! (or for jealous rage sparked by gorgeous dandies). He had thought of a plan, perhaps it was childish and peevish, but it might help them.  
  
Quickly, Hornblower scanned the interior of the powder room, saw that it was well-stocked, and returned on deck.  
  
"Matthews, have you finished? Come with me--" Hornblower pretended not to notice Blakeney, who had turned to face him at this address. "Collins, Hartley--Kennedy--all is set, Matthews?"  
  
"Aye, aye, sir! We've got the sick and Styles in the boat--"  
  
"There's just one more thing to do--follow me--"  
  
Hornblower led them to the powder room. The Citoyen was starting to careen back and forth; she was definetely lower in the water than before. Matthews turned to Hornblower, "Sir, we've already stocked the boat for our muskets. Do you want us to bring more?"  
  
"We can't leave good powder behind."  
  
Matthews, Kennedy, and the rest of the men nodded, somewhat hesitantly, as the Citoyen tipped at a steep angle and swung back. Did Hornblower want all of the powder? Why? There were at least half-a-dozen barrels of the stuff.   
  
"Gentlemen--I fancy some fireworks." Hornblower smirked as he caught, out of the corner of his eye, sight of Blakeney, edging towards the room. "Let's give the French a little entertainment."

Quickly the extra barrels of powder were passed out. "Now follow me!" Horatio called out as he went on deck. "Oldroyd, Matthews. Put those aft by the wheel. Collins, Hartley to mid-deck. Mr. Kennedy, follow me to the foc'sle."   
The sound of someone clearing his throat made Horatio stop in mid stride. He turned around to face Blakeney, who still had that stupid grin on his face. "Did you need something?"  
  
"I was just wondering what you wanted me to do with my barrel?"  
  
"Um, yes," Horatio said straining to be polite," Come with me." The men did as they were told. It was getting harder to walk on the sloped deck as the Citoyen sank lower. "Archie, lay the fuse and meet up with Matthews. Make sure all the barrels are tied together." Quickly Archie did as he was ordered, leaving Percy to help Horatio.   
  
"Do you know a fisherman's bend?" Percy asked.  
"What?"   
  
"Well I think a fisherman's bend would be the best way to strap these barrels to the side of the ship."  
Horatio looked at him dumbfounded. "Be my guest Mr. Blakeney," he said as he step aside. With lightening speed Percy worked the ropes like a true sailor. Horatio had to admit he was impressed.  
  
Quickly they made there way aft and to the rest of the waiting men. "Ready Matthews?" The older man nodded. "Good, then everyone off the ship. Light the fuse." Matthews did as he was told and followed Horatio into the boat with the rest of the men. As the shoved off they watched as one of the French ships overtook the doomed vessel. Silently they observed the French boarding the Citoyen. Matthews whispered," Should be getting close sir."  
  
Suddenly an ear shattering bang broke the silence. The Citoyen went up in a million pieces. Fire erupted on the French ship. The screams of men burning echoed across the water. "Yeah!" the English sailors shouted in triumph. "Excellent plan My. Hornblower," Percy congratulated. But Horatio didn't smile. "Don't start celebrating yet. We still have to get back to the Indy. And in case you haven't noticed, there is still one enemy ship out there."

Horatio watched as the ship burned. For a time all any of them could see was the blazing fire. Then slowly the second ship appeared, rising like a phoenix out of the ashes. Horatio shook his head slightly.  
  
"Damn.", he muttered to himself and looked at the men around him. None of them moved, waiting for his orders. As the French vessel got closer Horatio's heart beat faster. This was *not* one of his better plans.  
  
"Horatio?", Archie whispered expectantly. All Horatio could do was shake his head. The ship was less than one hundred feet away from them. Horatio turned and looked ahead, hoping beyond hope that the Indefatigable would appear.  
  
Next to Oldroyd, Blakeney sat in silence as he watched the ship get closer. They would have to do something soon if they were to have any hope of getting out of this. He'd been in a French jail and did not relish the idea of returning. Reaching past Oldroyd, he touched Archie on the shoulder.  
  
"Do you still have those fits?", he asked. Archie nodded solemly. Already he had figured out what Percy was up to. Getting to his feet Blakeney began waving his arms at the ship and calling out in French. Archie also stood, but remained silent. Horatio watched in horror as the French captain moved to the bow of the ship.  
  
"Archie!", he hissed. Archie raised his hand slightly as if telling Horatio to remain quiet.  
  
Blakeney moved to the back of the boat and bowed to the captain above him. Carefully, Archie made his way to his side. The boat moved closer and they could see a half a dozen pistols trained on them. A ladder was then thrown down and Horatio heard the captain order Blakeney to board. Percy tossed a quick smile at Horatio as Archie grabbed a hold of the rope and began climbing. Blakeney held the ladder and waited. Archie was halfway up the side of the ship when he began jerking back and forth violently. Above him the captain a few members of his crew watched in dumbfounded shock. Horatio kept his eye on the frogs, waiting for one of them to shoot Archie instead of allowing the 'fit' to go on. Slipping his hand to his side, he took up his own pistol.  
  
The captain continued shouting at Blakeney, demanding to know what on earth was wrong. Percy smiled and informed the man that Archie was possessed. In a flash the captain aimed his pistol at Archie who, noticing his imminent danger dropped himself from the ladder and into the water. The captain fired while Blakeney yelled at him to stop, assuring the man that Archie was no danger to anyone but himself. Although it did not exactly have the desired effect the result of the stall was indeed a favorable one.  
  
"Sir.", Matthews whispered and nodded to the waning darkness before them. Horatio turned around quickly and finally allowed himself to smile. The Indefatigable. Angry French voices turned to panic as the frigate moved closer. From the Indy a cannon roared, missing the corvette by no less than a hand span. Blakeney grinned.  
  
"Do you still want me to come up there?", he inquired in French. No answer was forthcoming from the captain as he stared in disbelief at the Indefatigable. Percy let go of the ladder.  
  
"I will take that as a no.", he added, then sat down and waited for the French to surrender.  
  
"Hey,", Archie called from the freezing water, "A little help here.". Immediately Oldroyd and Matthews pulled him back onto the boat. Despite his rather soggy exterior he was grinning.  
  
"That has to be the stupidest thing I have ever seen.", Horatio announced, then gave orders to pull for the Indy.

Captain Pellew laid down Hornblower's report and stared at Hornblower, who met his gaze unwaveringly. Finally, after several seconds, Pellew inhaled.  
  
"Hornblower..."  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
Pellew cocked an eyebrow ever so slightly. "You are not a man of exaggeration."  
  
Hornblower held his gaze, resisting the urge to shake his head.  
  
"And you have yet to resort to fiction, am I right?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Then, I suppose..." Pellew cast his eyes upon the report on his table. Hornblower had spent much of the previous night (after coming aboard the Indy and giving a short verbal account), in composing it, and had then given it to Captain Pellew at dawn. And Pellew, over a mug of watery weedy coffee, had read and re-read the document, particularly the sections concerning Kennedy's fit and the French's subsequent flight.  
  
"...there are stranger things," Pellew concluded. A hint of a smile crept onto his face. Hornblower pretended not to notice this. "You are dismissed, Lieutenant."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Hornblower bowed and turned to go, not before seeing Pellew's faint smile harden as he addressed the midshipman waiting outside the open cabin door.  
  
"Send for Blackeney."   
  
  
  
"I say," Matthews smirked, "I thought you was a coddled pet, and then them frogs panicking when Kennedy pulled his fit was more of a jest--but, now, I'd wager that them frogs would have a good laugh now."  
  
Styles nodded, fidgetting uncomfortably. The good young doctor Harry Frick was trying a new technique recently developed in Edinburgh. He had procurred a board, roughly Styles' height and width, and he had strapped Styles in it, upright. This new predicament embarrassed Styles completely.  
  
"You look like one of them wrapped up dried up chaps from Ancient Ee-gypt."  
  
"Please, Matthews--" Frick scurried over, "do not distress poor Styles. He is in much pain."  
  
"Oh, no, Doctor! I was lifting his spirits."  
  
Styles offered a wilting grin, as to indicate that his spirits were indeed lifted.  
  
"See, Doctor, the man loves a good joke. Just the thing for him and his spine."  
  
"Oh, well, then," Harry Frick smiled apologetically, "I've much to learn about the humour of the valiant sailor." He beamed upon them both and left them.  
  
"Hey," Styles whispered, "what about that Blackeney character? What did they do with him?"  
  
"I dunno. Maybe he isn't a frog."  
  
"Well, if he is, they ought to hand him over to Frick so he can clap him up here and fix HIS back."

Percy Blakeney stood before Captain Pellew looking rather aghast. "Very well, Captain. I take your point. Rest assured I shall not interfere, as you put it, any further with your officers and their duty. If that is all, I beg your leave." Bowing respectfully he backed toward the door.  
  
"Yes, Sir Percy, that is all. Good day." Pellew's tone was even icier than it had been during his earlier rebuke of the gentleman standing on the other side of the table.  
  
Blakeney closed the cabin door behind him and whispered into the breast pocket of his jacket. "I fear the captain has no sense of humor, Franny. What say we try to find someone who might appreciate our company?"   
  
At the sound of his name, Franny poked his little brown and white head out of Percy's jacket. His master patted him quickly and gently pushed him back inside. "Careful, my boy. Somehow I think your presence on board might cause an even greater uproar than mine."  
  
****************************  
  
  
Beads of perspiration dotted Styles' forehead as he remained lashed to what he now called "the rack". He had to admit the pain in his back was lessening but it was incredibly annoying being practically immobile. True he had the use of his arms and he could move his head but the rest of him was firmly strapped to the board by yards and yards of strong cotton muslin.   
  
Matthews was now back on deck attending his duties leaving Styles alone to stare at the dismal walls of the sick berth. With nothing better to do Styles decided to try to get some rest but just as he was about to drift off a familiar voice filled the room.  
  
"Well, well, well, if it isn't old King Tut himself!"  
  
Style opened his eyes to see Blakeney standing right in front of him, his mouth stretched into an absolutely foolishly large grin. He simply closed his eyes and replied, "Nice to see the cap'n didn't keelhaul ya yet, Sir. Would've hated to miss that."  
  
Blakeney laughed heartily. "At least YOU still have a sense of humor, Styles. More than I can say for your captain!" Franny popped his head out of Percy's jacket once again and let out a small yip. The strange sound caused Styles to quickly open his eyes. Eyeing him from Blakeney's chest area was what appeared to be a very small dog. The animal was brown and white with two enormous ears covered in long, feathery hair, which stuck out on each side, giving them the illusion of wings.  
  
"What on earth is that?" queried Styles.  
  
"I do believe you mean, WHO on earth is that, Mr. Styles. Please allow me to introduce you to Francoise, Franny for short, undoubtedly the smartest dog in all of France and England."  
  
Styles began to chuckle. "What, that little runt, the smartest dog in France AND England. Ya must be jokin'!"  
  
"I assure you, Mr. Styles, I am not joking."

Styles stared at the little dog in doubt. "You're telling me that," he pointed his finger at Fanny," that dog is smart!"  
Percy laughed out loud," I knew you would cheer me up, old boy!"  
Styles twisted in discomfort as Percy pulled Fanny out of his pocket and set her in his lap. "How about a test then?" A grin of mischief crossed Styles face as he nodded in agreement.   
Percy began looking about the room. "I know!" Styles said with delight. "If that dog can fetch me Oldroyd's secret stash, then you have convinced me."  
  
Percy caressed Fanny tenderly. "What is Oldroyd's stash?"  
"Well," Styles continued lowering his voice," in his bunk he has the best beef jerky I have ever tasted. He won't share it with anyone, selfish pig!"  
  
"Yes, yes," Percy said as he continued to pet Fanny. "But how do you know it is the best if he won't share?"  
A smile of pure delight spread across the big sailor's face. "Let's just say I found it by accident like and leave it at that."  
  
"Very well." Percy picked up Fanny and held her up so he could look her in the eye. In a totally serious tone he said," Fanny, I have a mission for you. Find beef jerky. Do you hear my? Find beef jerky. I know you can do it girl! You are the best sweetie." Gently he set the tiny dog down. "Go Fanny! GO!"   
Like a flash of lighting Fanny sprang into motion. In seconds she was gone from the room.  
"Wow, that little bugger is fast!" Styles blurted.  
Percy only smiled knowingly and pulled out his pocket watch.  
  
  
Horatio stood at watch on the quarterdeck. After his session with the captain he was in a bad mood. He paced in front of the wheel, watching every movement of his division below. He already yelled at Oldroyd once today for being to slow. With Styles out of action , the rest of the men had to work harder. "D@mn French anyway," Horatio muttered under his breath.   
Oldroyd stopped to stretch his aching arms. Peeking up he caught Hornblower's look and jumped back into moving the heavy ropes.   
"Matthews," he whispered still working.  
"Wot do you think is buggin' him?"  
Matthews only frowned. "Doesn't matter as long you do your share."  
Oldroyd quickly pulled the arm full of ropes to the other side of the Indy. "Everyone is ina bad mood!" he said to no one.  
  
The dinner bell sounded and Oldroyd sighed in relief. Quickly he headed below and to his secret stash. It was his habit now to get a bite of beef before his real meal. This way no one saw him pull the succulent meat out of its hiding place.  
Nearing his bunk he thought he heard a strange sound. As he got closer the saw his stash moving. "Wot!" he exclaimed in surprise as Fanny sprang from the bunk, carrying a sack in her mouth.  
"Rat! Rat!" Oldroyd began screaming in anger. "Come back 'ere!"  
  
Fanny bolted up the stairs and out to the quarterdeck. Horatio never saw what hit him as the little dog flew past, knocking him off balance. By the time Oldroyd reached him it was too late. He stood over the unconscious Hornblower and wondered how he was going to explain this.  
  
Styles and Percy had heard the sounds of men yelling and sat in anticipation. "You think its ok?" Styles asked worried.  
"Yes, she is fine. And if you would please refer to IT as a her, I would much appreciate it." Before Styles could reply a white and brown blur fly into the room, jumping into Percy's waiting arms.  
"Oh Fanny!" Percy cried in relief. "I knew you could do it sweetie." Styles took the packet from the dog's mouth and opened it. "Have a piece?" he said wickedly.  
Percy smiled and placed Fanny back in his pocket. "Don't mind if I do. But I think Fanny deserves the first piece!"

Hornblower stirred and awoke groggily. It was a few seconds before he realized that he was not in his cabin, and a few more before he realized that he was in the sick room. And, then, slowly (amidst much pounding inside his head), he realized that he was indeed a patient.  
  
He tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea checked his attempt. Clenching his jaw, he struggled upright and glanced as the room swam around him. There were a few lamps lit, and some wan daylight coming from a porthole, and these points of illumination swirled and multiplied. Feeling his stomach flip, Hornblower decided that the best way he could serve his ship was by quietly recovering in the least uncomfortable position possible, and so he laid back onto the bunk.  
  
"Doctor--" he croaked. His mouth felt full of sand. Raising one hand to his aching head, he touched a veritable turban. Panicking, he called for the doctor, but no sound came out. He slapped the bed with his hand, and the blow resounded painfully.  
  
"Hornblower! Sir!"  
  
That sounded like Styles! Hornblower twisted and craned his neck.  
  
"Over here, sir!"  
  
"...Styles..." Hornblower was pleased to find his voice; he did not notice that Styles was rather oddly wrapped up like John Donne in St. Paul's.  
  
"Can't move, sir! Nor can you, actually. You've had quite a clout."  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Almost two days."  
  
At this, Hornblower wrenched upright--his head protested, but he stayed up and eased his legs over the bed to the floor. He was clad in a nightshirt, he noticed with some disgust. Someone must have undressed him. What a sorry state of affairs!  
  
He took to his feet like a toddler of ten months. The ship underfoot leapt about as though she was in a tempest. Grimly, he calmed himself--he had started his career, after all, by being sick at anchor; he was hardly a natural sailor, and it was understandable that he had lost his sea legs. By clinging to the bunks and other fairly solid fixtures, he made his way to Styles, who was propped up in the corner of the berth.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Oh, Oldroyd says that you tripped over a rat

"Styles--" Hornblower tried not to glare at him.  
  
"But, sir, it's true! Ask Oldroyd yourself!"  
  
Hornblower eyed Styles for an instant. The big sailor was not a complicated man to read, and Hornblower could tell that he was in earnest.  
  
"Very well, Styles. But I'd still like to talk to Oldroyd. Run up and fetch him." Hornblower permitted himself a small smile.  
  
  
  
  
Kennedy heard a whisper as he was about to enter the officers mess. He glanced about and saw an elegant, gloved hand beckon him.  
  
"Percy!"  
  
"Shhh!" Percy cautioned.  
  
Kennedy trotted over to him. "I haven't seen you for days! Where have you been?"  
  
"Oh, here and there, at the races, on Rotten Row, on Polish Street..." Percy snickered and Kennedy grinned in reply.  
  
Actually, Percy had been here and there, about the ship. Stung by the dressing down given to him by Captain Pellew, Percy resolved to cloister himself, and soon found out how hard it was to do this on a ship teeming with men. He dined with the officers, and slept in one of the lieutenants' quarters, but otherwise kept away, dividing his time between the sick berth, a sliver of the quarterdeck (by unspoken agreement with Pellew, they each kept to opposite sides of the deck when their presences coincided there), a bit of the hold, too much of the head. He tried to be friendly with the hands, to pass the time a bit, but this association was withered both by difference of rank and by unspoken disapproval of Pellew, and, in short, he was living a fairly miserable experience. The French officers in chains in the hold were scarcely worse off than he. Most of his time he spent with Styles (quickly leaving when other company arrived) or in his tiny lieutenant's cabin teasing Franny.  
  
He had mentioned the French officers during his interview with Pellew, and it was this precise subject that had purpled Pellew's countenance. Blakeney had offered to question them, as his French was perfect, and Pellew responded by forbidding him near that section of the hold. The marines guarding the prisonners were warned to keep Blakeney away.  
  
So, the little dog was his only consolation! Blakeney sent her on all sorts of little missions, fully trusting her abilities of discretion. And each task (except that concerning Oldroyd's jerky) was doubled by a command to "put it back." Stealing on a ship was a serious crime, and Percy did not want himself or his dog to dangle from the yardarms, but he was so bored!  
  
And then, this morning, Franny had disappeared! He had sent her off on a rather audacious task, judging her worthy of the challenge, but she had not come back, and he was sick with worry. And, though he was not prepared to tell Kennedy about the dog, he needed to talk with him. To ask him a few questions.  
  
"Kennedy, I've been keeping to the shade--a small matter, really. My rendez-vous with the captain wound up a frost, and so I'm banking that absence will make the heart grow fonder in my case. After a few years, I will be warmly enfolded in the captain's navy-clad arms as the son he never had."  
  
"I can't understand why Captain Pellew would be so harsh," Kennedy exclaimed. "After all, it was your idea to abandon ship, and to scare off the second ship. Not to mention the fisherman's bend."  
  
"True, true," Percy waved his gloved hand airily, "but it was rather forward of me. Anyhow, I was wondering if the captain keeps to a schedule--I've noticed that he goes up on the quarterdeck at dawn, and so forth, I won't bore you, but if I knew his pace, I could keep my phizz out of sight and yet lead something less of a hermit's existence."  
  
"Oh, of course!"  
  
"So, for instance, when is he most likely to be in his cabin? Or, conversely, least?"

Blakeney peered into the dim sick-room. The doctor was on board contorting the sailors with stretching exercises.   
  
Hornblower appeared to be asleep. Excellent. Blakeney smiled. He had nothing against the lieutenant, he admired his perserverance and courage, and he still hoped that relations between them would lose a bit of ice, but he could not forget that Hornblower was an obstacle.   
  
Gingerly, Blakeney tip-toed into the sick room, gazing at Hornblower, turning excuses over in his mind should the lieutenant suddenly crack an eyelid or stir. Hornblower's accident had made his, Blakeney's, life, more constrained, but, fortunately, Hornblower was sleeping a lot, and very soundly.  
  
The lieutenant was presently on his back, his head wrapped up in bandages, his arms, on the outside of his bedclothes, primly clasping them to his sides. His chest rose and fell evenly.  
  
"Like a little nun..." Blakeney murmured, creeping past to Styles.  
  
"Oy!"  
  
"Shhh! musn't rouse the young turk from his peaceful repose..." Blakeney whispered.   
  
"You've been a stranger, sir." Styles hissed back.  
  
"I'm sorry to deprive you of my company, old boy, but the lieutenant will recover faster without it."  
  
"He's a good sort, sir. A bit stern, but sterling."  
  
"Yes, but we don't see eye to eye. Anyway, have you seen Franny?"  
  
Styles shook his head. "Not since the last of the jerky."  
  
"She's gone missing. If she winds up in here, please tell her to, ahem, "go to daddy"--and don't tell anyone else about her. Having a dog on board would slam me in the good captain's blackest books."  
  
"Aye, aye."  
  
"Thank-you, Styles." Percy clapped his hand on the sailor's shrouded shoulder. "You're a fine chap."  
  



	2. Part 2

Part 2

**Part 2**

It was twelve o'clock, midnight. All was well, the wind steady, the night clear. Pellew returned to his cabin clean of fresh concerns. Hornblower's injury (how did one trip over a rat, anyhow) still troubled him, as did the usual ship annoyances, discontent, stale food, weevils, fleas, fraying ropes, sagging canvas, rust, bilge. Added to this ragout was a revolutionary doctor vexing the hands and a possible French spy.  
  
Pellew absently rifled a few loose papers on his desk. Bearings had been taken, a course plotted, journal entries logged...he could sleep. But something troubled him.   
  
He scanned his desk more closely. It was in some disaray, as usual--sometimes, in haste, he did not put things back properly--but it did not seem like his disaray. Pellew had never considered that he had a particular way of tossing about his papers, but the jumble in front of him looked decidedly alien.  
  
One of the mids had been sent up by the master to compare his bearings with Pellew's--Pellew remembered this, but couldn't recall if that had happened that day, or the one before, or even the week before.  
  
Quickly, he withdrew from his waistcoat pocket a key. His most important papers and dispatches he kept locked up.   
  
A rustle off to the side drew his attention. Pellew's sharp gaze darted to it quickly, but he didn't see anything more than a fleeting motion or a shadow, if that.  
  
"Blast! Rats!" Pellew sighed and yelled in relief. He unlocked his chest, and quickly flipped through his documents. They were all there, all in order. He locked the chest with satisfaction.  
  
And heard yet another rustle. Again, his glance flew to the source, and he saw a bit more, enough to suggest that there was indeed a small animal in his room.   
  
He slid the key back into his waistcoat pocket, taking out his watch, and walked over to his bunk. Four hours, he could sleep for four hours. They were close to England, a few days away. They were close to France, too, but he needed some rest. In the case of a skirmish, he would wake up instantly, as usual.  
  
Pellew took his shoes and coat and waistcoat off, draping the latter two on the back of a chair. A small scurrying movement caught his eye. He tossed his pillow at it, lay back onto his bed, crossed his arms, and fell asleep.

Unable to find the last object her master sent her to retrieve, Franny took it upon herself to locate something else to obtain for him. After several hours of searching for a suitable item, luck was finally with her.   
  
Carefully hidden from view, Franny watched the man move about the cabin. He circled the table then stopped and gazed at the papers scattered about, the very same papers she had just finished nosing through in search of a prize.  
  
The man stopped abruptly then suddenly removed something from his waistcoat pocket. Something small, gold and very shiny. Franny wiggled in anticipation. This was exactly what she was looking for. In fact, the object the man held in his hand was exactly the same kind her master often sent her to seek and return to him. Hundreds of times she squeezed her mere five pounds through the smallest cracks and crevices in search of just such a golden treasure. Every time she returned with one her master made such a big fuss over her and acted extremely pleased. Now all she needed to do was wait.  
  
She watched the man remove his outer clothing, including the piece where the shiny object was hidden. When she was sure the man could not hear or see her, Franny crept silently along the floor toward the chair over which the items were draped. Standing on her hind legs she deftly located the gold object and removed it from the waistcoat pocket. As smooth as silk she slid along the floor and wriggled her way underneath the cabin door, carrying her prize carefully between her little teeth. In the darkness of the ship Franny made her way back to her master.  
  
Sir Percy breathed a sigh of relief as he heard a wonderfully familiar sound at his door. In her customary manner, Franny first deposited her prize onto the bed then leaped into her master's open arms and showered him with kisses.   
  
"Franny, I was so worried. Are you quite all right, cherie?" Percy cooed. "I cannot imagine where you have been." The little dog jumped from Blakeney's grasp onto the bed and pawed at the piece of metal laying there.   
  
"What have you brought me you little....", he stopped in midsentence as he picked up the object. "Oh dear me, please do not let this be from...not from...oh good lord, please let this key belong to anyone other than...."

Captain Pellew roared at his man servant," Find that key! Immediately!"  
  
Holmes jumped at the angry voice yelling at him. Frantically he began crawling on all fours looking for the missing object. Pellew tugged at his jacket pulling all the pockets inside out. "I know I left it here," he mumbled under his breath. Once again he retraced his steps from the night before, trying to remember where he had left the precious item. He looked about his cabin, his anger growing. The room was now in total dishevel. "Holmes," he shouted," clean up this mess!"  
  
Quickly the frightened cabin boy jumped to his feet. "Wha what about the key sir?" he squeaked.   
  
Pellew through on his coat, shoving all the pockets back in place. "Nevermind that! Now get this cleaned up in five minutes. I'll be right back."   
  
Holmes let out a sigh of relief as Pellew left the messy room. Quickly he started the pick up all of the captain's wardrobe that lay on the floor.  
  
Styles twisted in place, trying to forget about the itch in the middle of his back. It had been driving him crazy for hours. All was quiet in the sick berth. Horatio was now resting in his cabin and no one else was in need except him. He closed his eyes and tried to rest when suddenly he heard someone clear their throat. Pellew stood directly in front of him and didn't look too happy.  
  
"Sir," Styles blurted out and tried to get up with the board still strapped to his back.   
"It's all right Mr. Styles, at ease."  
  
"Yes sir," he said and sat back down.  
  
Pellew started to pace in front of him. "I need to ask you something."  
  
Styles didn't understand why the captain would be needing him, but waited in anticipation.  
  
"Now understand," he continued," what you are about to do, you mustn't tell a soul. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
Styles nodded. "Yes, sir."  
  
"Good," Pellew relaxed and stopped pacing. Standing in front of the big man he whispered," I hear you are an expert at picking locks?"

Styles blinked in surprise, unsure he had heard right.  
  
"Uh, yessir, I guess.". Pellew nodded in satisfaction, then paused and looked Styles over carefully. Still strapped to the board his mobility was severely limited. Styles watched as Pellew's face grew redder.  
  
"Damn,". he muttered. If he had Styles unstrapped and it caused further injury... Then again, he needed that chest open. Either way, the consequences were not admirable. Finally the captain took a deep breath and turned away. Confused, Styles watched him go then turned his attention back to staring at the ceiling above him.  
  
By the time he returned to his cabin Pellew had cooled off somewhat. His only hope was that Holmes, during his cleaning of the cabin, had found the key.  
  
The place was spotless. Nary a speck of dust out of place. Holmes stood by the door, a timid half grin on his face. Pellew entered, then nodded to the cabinboy.  
  
"Holmes, get Mr. Hornblower for me.", he ordered. The young man was out of the cabin as if he had just been released from a French prison. Pellew stood in the middle of his cabin, his attention focused on nothing in particular. Making his way to his desk he sat and dropped his head back. Closing his eyes he rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger.  
  
"What is God's name is going on on my ship?", he asked aloud. Heaving another sigh he raised his head and opened his eyes. Before him were a pair of black pools staring at him from a face of fur. It took a moment for Pellew to register that it was in fact a small dog sitting on the desk in front of him. Pellew cocked his head to one side, the dog mimicked the action.  
  
"A stowaway, eh?", he asked. The dog stood and took a couple of danty steps toward him before lowering its head and opening its mouth. Pellew could not hide his surprise as the gold key dropped in front of him. Reaching forward, he picked up the slightly soggy object. As his hand closed around it, the dog licked the back of his hand a couple of times. Pellew smiled in spite of himself. Slipping the key into his pocket with one hand he took up the tiny dog in the other. He noticed a collar around the animals neck; a beautifully made white collar dotted with what looked like tiny diamonds. Getting to his feet Pellew walked toward the door. He had more than a pretty good idea to whom the dog belonged.  
  
He passed Hornblower in the corridor. Horatio stopped and immediately turned and followed him. Was that a  
*dog* he was carrying?  
  
"Sir?", Horatio asked when he finally caught up to him.  
  
"Find Sir Percy Mr. Hornblower.", Pellew ordered as he continued walking.  
  
  
By the time Percy arrived, Pellew was standing on deck and the little dog had made its way up onto his shoulder and was now sitting there rather happily. Percy, followed by Horatio and Archie, stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the captain and his new companion. This was not good. Striding forward, Percy stopped less than three feet from Pellew and bowed deeply.  
  
"Captain.", he greeted and resisted the urge to reach out and grab Franny. Pellew turned and offered Percy a cold, unimpressed smile.  
  
"Perhaps Sir Percy, you would like to explain this?", it was ore of a statement than a question.  
  
"Franny belongs to my wife, Margot.", Percy replied. Pellew cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"Indeed. What is it doing on my ship?", he continued. Percy bit his bottom lip slightly. He should be taking offense to the way the captain was speaking to him, but knew it would be far more trouble than it was worth at that moment.  
  
"With all due respect Sir Edward, what am I doing on your ship?". It came as much of a surprise to Pellew as it did to Percy when Pellew smiled.  
  
"Well put. Tell me one thing, what was, uh Franny, doing in my cabin?". Percy offered a shrug.  
  
"I can only guess Sir Edward that she had a fondness for a man in uniform.", he offered. Tihs time Pellew actually allowed himself to laugh.  
  
"I can't say as I blame her.", he replied. Behind Percy both Horatio and Archie stood in dumbfounded silence. Horatio carefully rolled his eyes toward Archie who could only offer a slight shrug.  
  
"Mr. Hornblower, are we prepared to land tomorrow?", Pellew had changed the subject so quickly Horatio was taken completely off guard.  
  
"Uh, yessir. We should be landing no later than ten am.". Pellew nodded in satisfaction as Franny dropped her head onto his shoulder and closed her eyes.  
  
"And the repairs?".  
  
"All cataloged. It should take no more than a fortnight, as required.", he replied. Pellew nodded.  
  
"Then I suggest to two gentlemen think about what you will do during your leave.", he announced. Percy smiled and stepped toward Archie.  
  
"Why don't spend a couple of days at Blakeney Hall. Meet Margot. It will give us time to catch up.", he offered. Archie beamed at the prospect.  
  
"Thank you Sir Percy.", he said, then Percy turned to Horatio.  
  
"You too Mr. Hornblower. Spend some time in the country.". Horatio went positively white. He looked at all three men before him and wished he could refuse, but etiquitte dictated otherwise.  
  
"I, too, would be delighted.", he replied and hoped he didn't sound as unenthusiastic as he felt.  
  
"Delightful!", Percy gushed and clapped his hands. At the sound Franny opened her eyes and leapt onto his shoulder. When Percy headed back to his cabin Horatio watched him go and wondered how he had gotten himself into this. Archie clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
"It will be interesting to see you on my ground.", he whispered slyly and returned to his duty. Horatio shook his head slightly. This was going to be a disaster.

"We'll see a bit of shooting, I wager. Do you shoot, Mr. Hornblower?"  
  
Hornblower nodded absently as the carriage lurched, pitching him against Kennedy, who sat on his left. Blakeney lounged on the seat opposite, his handsome face unwavering in its smile. His posture, his casual slouch, had annoyed Hornblower from the start of their seven hour voyage from London--and the periodic yips from Franny, who clearly disliked him, also grated, but Blakeney's chatter was the stock of his vexation. This new question did not help manners. Hornblower tried to smile, and nodded, "Yes, sir," and managed to refrain from adding "but not for sport."  
  
"Well, then, we'll run out the guns for you, so to speak." Blakeney smiled more earnestly.  
  
Did the man really hope to make friends with him? Hornblower wondered. He was very persistent, he could grant him that, at least.  
  
"That'll be grand!" Kennedy explained. Poor chap, he probably felt the ice between his two friends--the past seven hours had been a purgatory for even Kennedy. Franny yipped in echo.  
  
Blakeney pointed out of the window, at a field.   
  
"Part of my estate. Gentlemen, welcome to the ancestral seat of the Blakeney family. As the last first born, I welcome you heartily."  
  
Hornblower peered politely and emitted an aaah. The field looked like any other sort of field with plants growing on it. His experience with agriculture was limited: he sorted fruits and vegetables by their degree of spoilage, and was more concerned with squeezing however many barrels of whatever from the Navy's Stores than with the growing of Nature's bounty.  
  
The carriage turned onto another, narrower path, flanked by stone collumns. Franny barked excitedly. Hornblower stole a look at Blakeney. The dandy's gleaming smile had subsided--if only for a second--it had faltered.   
  
And, despite himself, Hornblower felt his own smile (if he'd had one at all) broaden at this small sign of discomfiture.  
  
They came to a wall and a pair of gates, which a liveried footman opened at their approach. Blakeney straightened in his seat and rattled off a brief history or something which Kennedy and Franny paid attention to. Hornblower continued to smile and nod and to observe the small dark cloud threatening to elipse the dashing man's joviality.   
  
"My wife will be happy for company." Blakeney told them. "She has been ill--"  
  
He cut himself off to renew his smile, a bit forcedly.  
  
"She had to absent herself from the season in London, a sad trial. But the doctor thought the bad air and excitement too much. Anyway, she has largedly recovered."  
  
The carriage drew up to the Hall's large stone classical facade, of white pillars and light grey stone. Blakeney explained that his father had added this about twenty years ago. Lined up along the entrance stairwell were two collumns of servants, and, on the top stair, stood two women.  
  
"My wife," Blakeney told them, pointing at the smaller of the two. She was thin, swathed in white, leaning on the arm of the other woman.  
  
"And her companion, Lady Redpath."  
  
Accordingly, Hornblower glanced at her, and startled. Blakeney fortunately was distracted in gazing at his wife. Hornblower shot a warning eye at Kennedy, who was agape with his mouth half open.  
  
They both had met Lady Redpath before--when she had been a duchess.

Blakeney, Hornblower, and Kennedy ascended the grand staircase three abreast. The servants made their sweeps and scrapes as the trio passed them. On the third upper-most step, Blakeney halted, and with a flourish of a white gloved hand--  
  
"Lady Blakeney, Lady Redpath, I would like to present Lieutenant Hornblower and Lieutenant Kennedy, both lately of the Indefatigable under the command of Captain Pellew."  
  
Accordingly, Hornblower bowed and offered his hand to the closest lady, Lady Redpath. She accepted it without a hint of recognition.  
  
"I have heard of you, Lieutenant," she told him in that contralto voice he remembered, "it is a pleasure to finally form an acquaintance."  
  
"Indeed, madam, on both sides." Hornblower smiled; he had heard that line from a swell in London, for which he was eternally grateful. Lady Redpath (for that was how he must think of her now) was in good health, good spirits, and she looked the very picture of a good gentlewoman, except for the faintest of smirks playing with the left corner of her mouth--which no one but Hornblower could see, anyhow.  
  
Hornblower nodded again to her, and stepped aside to address Blakeney's wife. He paid her his bow and, rising, offered his hand mechanically. He had scarcely glanced at her, his brief impression was that she was an invalid. His second, more closer survey stunned him.  
  
"Madam..." he started. She took his hand. "I am most honoured."  
  
She was far more lovelier at close quarters! At a distance, clad plainly in modest white dress and cap and scarves and gloves, she looked almost like a consumptive. Her complexion was pale, and there were dark circles under her luminous eyes, but her features otherwise were delicate and probably beautiful. All she wanted was a bit of health and more flattering clothing. Hornblower felt his head spin. She didn't see or feel this, he hoped, but the bandage around his temple was a more concrete point of conversation.  
  
"Mr. Hornblower, I hope you are recovering well from your injury." Her voice was soft, tinged with an unmistakable Parisian accent.  
  
"Certainly, madam," Hornblower answered, praying that the humiliating circumstances of his injury would not be discussed.  
  
AT that point, Blakeney's laugh rang out, followed closely by that of the duchess--Lady Redpath.  
  
"My dear lady," Blakeney faced his wife, his teeth showing in a wide grin, "the man can stomach a few knocks. The Navy isn't a parlour game."  
  
Lady Blakeney smiled at her husband demurely. "This one looks serious."  
  
Hornblower placed a hand on his bandage. Doctor Frick had put in several stitches, and he had torn these out--a bit prematurely--just before Hornblower and Kennedy left with Blakeney, and he had insisted that Hornblower wear and replace the bandage for two more days. Hornblower promised this, resolving to rip it off once in the carriage, but he had forgotten about it, and now he felt like a sham.   
  
"I've mostly recovered, madam. The doctor has advised me to keep the bandage on for a few more days merely to avoid infection."  
  
"Good," Lady Blakeney smiled.   
  
"Excellent!" Blakeney chimed in. "And his wits have fairly lined themselves up, too, so we can expect some spark at charades. Gentlemen--" he performed a sweeping bow, "Welcome to Blakeney Hall."  
  
He took the arm of his wife and led them through the grand entrance, Franny trotting directly behind him. Hornblower was obliged to pair up with Lady Redpath, who acted with oblivious grace. Kennedy followed them.  
  
Hornblower glanced at the slender figure of Blakeney's wife. There was intelligence in her eyes and manner, and her countenance, though drained, had been genial, but he fancied that he detected a slight disatisfaction.   
  
His own prejudices pinned this to the source of his disdain: Blakeney. He conceded that the man was a fair swordsman and strategist, and that he did have a share of wit (perhaps much more than he (Hornblower) could claim or readily display), but all of these qualities, which would have made a fairly decent man, were housed in a trivial (handsome, yes, exceedingly handsome and elegant--here, Hornblower reflexively bit down on his lip) exterior. And with such qrotesque mannerisms--the extravagant obeisances and dialogues, the motionless grin, the laugh...Blakeney Hall and Fortune appeared to be opulent enough for Society to forgive Blakeney these idiosyncracies, but they grated on Hornblower nonetheless.  
  
But, perhaps, he was blinded by the loveliness of his wife--Hornblower steeled himself to admit that a fine fortune and physical appearance, and Blakeney had both, were usually enough for a wife, and perhaps he overestimated her intelligence, anyhow. Doubtless, she was content.   
  
Certainly, he was envious.

Quiet as a mouse a figure watched as the strangers were led into Blakeney Hall. He ducked behind a potted plant and studied the new men. By their appearances he knew they were not from around here. As the group sat in the parlor, the lad recognized the navy hat the blonde man held onto. "Sailors!" he thought with excitement. Quickly his attention darted to Lady Blakeney. In her lap was his prize. Franny.   
  
Taking the little whistle out of his pocket he blew into it and waited. Franny instantly perked her ears up and hopped off the lady's lap. She ran straight to the boy's waiting arms. Giggles erupted from him as the dog licked his face in joy.  
Suddenly a hand reached down and pulled the youth to his feet. "Nigel! I told you to stay in the kitchen," the woman said in anger. Her voice caused everyone in the parlor to look.  
Quickly she snatched up Franny and pulled Nigel into the parlor. Handing the little dog to Lady Blakeney she apologized," I am so sorry madam. Please forgive me!"  
Lady Blakeney smiled down at the young lad. "Oh Helen, don't worry. I know Nigel likes to play spy."  
This response brought a grin of mischief to his face. "Thank you madam," she said as she grabbed the boy by the hand and dragged him out of the parlor. Laughter followed after them.   
  
Retreating into the kitchen, Helen gave Nigel a good scolding before he escaped outside. Once there he used his whistle to bring Franny to him once again. The pair raced to the nearby woods to play. The afternoon sun cast shadows about the trees, making the forest seem foreboding. As Nigel neared his secret hideout Franny began to bark. It wasn't her normal playful bark. Nigel stopped and turned to see why she was making such a fuss. Her yips were high pitched and frantic as he knelt down next to her. Out of a shadow a tall figure suddenly loomed over the boy. Franny instinctively turned and ran. Nigel froze in terror as the man grabbed him by the collar.  
  
Everyone's attention was on Lady Redpath as she entertained them with a story. "Well, I told him to take his hands off me or he could answer to the King!" Archie was laughing so hard, tears streamed down his face. Horatio did his best to appear comfortable but he hated every minute in the parlor. He was relieved when the ratdog, which is what he called Franny, interrupted with her incessant barking. Concern crossed Blakeney's face as he asked," What's wrong sweetie?"  
Quickly Franny headed out of the parlor. Percy ran after her, followed by Archie and Horatio. As soon as they got outside they spotted Nigel running at full speed toward them. "What is going on out here?" Percy questioned. Catching his breath the boy handed him a piece of paper. As he read it all the color drained from his face. "Where did you get this Nigel," he spat in anger. Archie placed a hand on Percy's shoulder. "What's wrong?"  
But Percy only ignored his friend. "Nigel, where!"  
The scared youth stammered," mmmister Smith, sir!"  
  
Blakeney stood perfectly still, an expression of shock and disbelief on his face. "Percy!" Archie said impatiently. With no emotion Blakeney whispered," I have lost my land, my house, everything. I have until the end of the week to vacate this property."

Archie and Horatio looked at each other in stunned silence. Just a few minutes before Horatio had felt envious of Percy and all he had. But now, he felt guilty about having such emotions. Wiping away his feelings he decides he has to help Blakeney, no matter how much he dislikes him.  
  
"How is that possible? I don't understand how you can lose everything," Horatio commented. Archie quietly turns to Nigel, who is still breathing hard from his scare. With a smile he whispers to the boy," Nigel, why don't you go inside and keep Helen company." The boy nods and quickly retreats to the kitchen.   
  
Archie gives Horatio a concerned look as he steps toward the silent Blakeney. "Percy," he says with warmth," we will help you. I won't let you and Lady Blakeney be thrown off your land." Percy silently hands Archie the paper. After he scans it he lets Horatio have a look.   
  
"Who is this Mister Smith?" he questions. With a long face Percy lets out a sigh before he speaks. "Mister Smith used to work this land. That is until I inherited it. I no longer needed his services but I did try to help him find work. He has resented me ever since. Several times he has threatened me with something like this. But I never took him seriously. I knew he had no claim on the land."  
  
Archie put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Percy, you have to fight this. Just because Smith got one court to say this is his land, does not mean he can take it." Archie's words seemed to have the desired effect, as Percy looked him in the eye. Horatio chimed in," You know we will do all we can to help. I know for a fact that Captain Pellew had a similar thing happen to him. Perhaps we could consult him on our next move."  
  
"Yes," Percy said eagerly," But one thing gentlemen." He lowered his voice as he spoke. "I do not want any of this to get to Lady Blakeney. She has had enough stress of late and I do not wish her to be involved until I can resolve this." Archie and Horatio agreed. "Certainly."  
Percy eyed Blakeney Hall. "Now we best get back to the ladies before they become suspicious."   
  


As the three men walked quickly back to the large house, Percy kept glancing behind him. It didn't surprise him that Mr. Smith would use Nigel to get the message to Percy. He was a cowered, that was for sure. Percy turned his head back around and to his surprise saw Lady Blakeney running out of the kitchen door. Instinct told him to continue walking.   
"No, no don't let Nigel of told her…" Percy thought. Lady Blakeney reached her husband, her face aghast.  
"My darling, what is wrong? Nigel said…" she stopped short as Percy pulled her towards his chest and gave her a hug.   
"Everything shall be quite alright. I'll get it sorted out," he let Lady Blakeney finish crying on his shoulder, then lifted up her head and looked at her, his eyes full of love.   
Archie and Horatio stood back several steps both looking at each other. Archie leaned towards Horatio, "What should we do?".  
Horatio whispered back, "Well he's our friend isn't he?"  
Archie gave Horatio a smile, "Your sure we are?"  
"I know I am."   
"As am I. We'll help him get through this." Archie stepped forward and put one hand on Lady Blakeney's shoulder and one on Sir Blakeney's shoulder. "So, what can we do to help Percy?"

Lady Blakeney entered her suite, nodding as her maid, a girl from France, curtseyed.  
  
"Fetch Lady Redpath, Violaine, please."  
  
Violaine curtseyed and dashed off. Humming absently to herself, Lady Blakeney sat at her dressing table, briskly surveying her complexion. Her looks were improving, but she was still too thin! and there, she let the matter drop, turning her mind to the much more important matter of the letter.  
  
Nigel, sweet boy, had read it, and had told her that it had something to do with a will. The rest was too confusing for him:  
  
  
  
"Dear Sir,  
  
I would remind you of particular matters, vis-a-vis, the question of your succession, as raised by your father's final will and testament, which is but an amendment of the will that has been accepted (this latest having been suppressed), an amendment devised on the occasion of your most imprudent marriage.  
  
I remain yours, &  
  
Mr. R.W. Carling, as representative of Mr. Smith.  
  
  
  
  
Bereft of the actual letter, Lady Blakeney knew enough to piece it together. Blakeney's father eventually acknowledged her, but he never let her forget that she had seduced one of Britain's brightest young heirs (however foppish) from a Parisian gutter. Mr. Smith, on the other hand, harboured no personal grievances against her, but he was totally opposed to Blakeney. There were more than a few irregularities in the harvest yields, and more than a bit of insolence, on Mr. Smith's part, and so Blakeney had dismissed him--kindly, and with providing him with another station, but Mr. Smith resentment continued to fester.  
  
Marguerite, at first, wondered why Blakeney should have treated this man so decently, who had clearly cheated him on numerous occasions, but she hadn't had much time to turn this over in her mind before they were graced with a visit from Mr. Smith's lawyer, a vicious, clever man called Carling. Blakeney had hurriedly excused himself with this unsavoury guest, obviously trying to spare Marguerite the spectacle.  
  
However, Marguerite had not forgotten that his father had threatened to disown him. The thought of his heir marrying a Parisienne actress was a lot for the old boy to swallow.  
  
The business raised another question, however: why didn't Mr. Smith and Carling simply produce the will and expel the Blakeneys from their home? What she had heard of Carling certainly indicated that he was ruthless--on one occasion, in London, as a creditor, he seized every last stick of furniture from an ailing widow. On all accounts, the man had clawed his way up from nowhere, with no friends, no influence, no family, no personal charm or breeding; why would he stop short of a fortune with a legitimate will in his hand?   
  
Marguerite admitted that she didn't know the whole story, why both Blakeney and Carling were hedging, what bits of evidence and counter-evidence they had aired. And Blakeney was so protective of her! He was unwilling to discuss the smallest part of the business with her; he told her that Mr. Smith felt that he was owed some money, and that the bloke could be pensioned off, but demmed carefully. With his raucous laugh, he brushed the matter aside. At which, Lady Blakeney smiled and withdrew, resolving to get to the heart of the matter.  
  
And then she fell gravely ill, due to a late miscarriage and subsequent hemmorage, and for nearly a week, she lingered on the verge between life and death. Once out of her delirium, she sent for Lady Redpath, by that name.   
  
Kitty Cobham had ventured on the Parisian stage during her long and varied career. Marguerite met her, and the two women had hit it off spectacularly well. At that time, Marguerite's salon was one of the most fashionable, and so she invited Kitty--really, Lady Felicity Redpath, a English noblewoman, recently widowed. Kitty was in dire need of a profitable situation, and she soon found it in the arms of the Marquis de Beauregarde--but this was old news! Marguerite chided herself for indulging in memories.  
  
In short, Lady Redpath was a very astute and resilient woman, and she, Marguerite, at the time of her misfortune, was too weak to enact the resolution she desired. Her maternal devotion for her unborn child, unfufilled, fueled her resolve to fix this matter for her husband (whom she loved genuinely despite his queer, and forced, antics).   
  
Lady Redpath had arrived two months ago, ostensibly to nurse Marguerite back to health with spicy conversation. Violaine and Helen were excellent ministers in the arts of warm soup and material comforts, and Helen's young son, that clever Nigel, was a welcome distraction, but Marguerite asked Percy for more company, giving him Lady Redpath's address.   
  
Percy Blakeney had been stricken by this tragedy, and he had tried his best to comfort her, even to the extent of laying aside his foppish facade (thus, she learnt for sure that it was a facade), and he sent for Lady Redpath promptly. This request, however, had pained him, she could see that. And then, he had been sent to France, leading her no time to douse his insecurities.  
  
During his absence, Mr. Smith and Carling retrenched, and Ladies Blakeney and Redpath talked at great length, and Lady Blakeney worried extensively.  
  
Finally, he had returned, too late, and yet, too soon. Carling hadn't given them any time.  
  
Lady Blakeney glanced at her reflection once again. Certainly, she decided, she was wan, but she would be strong. Over her shoulder, in the mirror, she saw Violaine enter the chamber.  
  
"Lady Redpath, Madame."  
  
"Thank-you, Violaine." Lady Blakeney nodded, and the girl withdrew. She turned to Kitty.  
  
"Have you heard?"

The day was warm and lovely as Horatio enjoyed a walk in the garden. The gloom and worry of the day before seemed to fade with the beauty of the new day. The Blakeney's estate was large, Horatio had to admit that. But he didn't realize how beautiful it was. Footsteps approaching interupted his thoughts.   
  
"Horatio!" Archie called out.  
  
"Good morning Archie," he greeted his friend.  
  
"Um yes," he replied obviously distracted. "Have you seen Percy this morning?"  
  
Horatio didn't like the sound in Archie's voice. "No, I haven't. Why?"  
  
Archie grabbed his elbow and proceeded to lead him back toward the house. "Here, I'll show you why."  
They were headed to the back of the house. If Horatio remembered correctly there was a nice little pond there.  
  
He was right as they rounded the corner and spotted Percy sitting by the pond, staring blankly into it. The rat dog sat next to him, looking as sad and dejected as her master.  
  
"Oh dear," Horatio sighed. Archie nodded sadly," What are we going to do?"

Horatio looked at Blakeney then back at Archie's hopeful face. Shaking his head in sorrow he tries not to look him in the eye.  
"Archie, this really is none of our affair. I don't even know this Blakeney fellow. I think we should just stay out of this as it is."  
The frown on Archie's face told him that was not what he wanted to hear.  
"Horatio," Archie began," I grew up with Percy. I consider him a brother. I understand if you don't want to get involved. But I must. I owe it to him and his family."  
  
Horatio knew what was going to happen. As much as he hated to admit it, Archie was right. After all Blakeney had saved his life on that French ship. The least he could do was help Archie. "Very well," he sighed.  
Archie's face exploded in cheer."I knew you wouldn't let me down Horatio!"  
"Wait a mintue Archie," he said trying to calm his eager friend. "First things first, I think we should find out everything we can about this Smith fellow."  
Archie agreed," Yes, of course."  
  
The two men turned and left Percy were he was with his little dog. Horatio's mind was already working on the problems at hand. "Let's go see Mister Smith. I am curious to hear what he has to say about our friend, Lord Percy Blakeney."

Horatio scanned himself in the mirror with a critical eye. He hadn't studied a full-length view of himself at great length for ages, ever since he'd tried on his lieutenant's uniform at the tailor's, and he was both fascinated and appalled.  
  
"This will never work, Archie."  
  
"Horatio, you look fine."  
  
The two of them, standing in Horatio's dressing room, were dressed as fops--French fops. Deciding to go see Mr.Smith was a simple matter, trying to figure out a way to evade his suspicions was not. And Archie was no help.  
  
Hornblower cursed himself. He had gotten out of worse scrapes with hardly a second's thought, had weighed the lives of two hundred men in a moment's decision, only to, faced with the task of outwitting a simple farmer, waste hours dithering with garish dandy clothes. Perhaps he really couldn't form a plan except at sea whilst staring into the maws of enemy cannon. Languishing in Blakeney's gorgeous manor must have made him soft. He resolved to get the matter over with as quickly as possible, and to get back to his ship and his normal life. This existence of manicured lawns and silk and sorbert sat ill with him.  
  
"Maybe we should go as emigre priests..." Horatio mused. He was used to running up false colours, not wearing them.   
  
"Horatio," Archie laughed, "Demmed if that'll go over Smashingly."  
  
Horatio snorted, shucking off his violet silk coat. "We can't do this, Archie. Mr.Smith has probably heard that Blakeney has two lieutenants staying with him, and maybe he even knows what we look like."  
  
"But you've got good calves." Archie said. "You could be a swell if you tried. And with a French accent--that'll throw him off, for sure. I mean, nobody expects an English naval officer to have good French and good legs."  
  
"What sort of nonsense is that, Archie?"  
  
"Oh, something Blakeney told me. I think he was joking, though."  
  
Horatio slumped down into a chair. "This is hopeless."  
  
"Oh..." Archie looked at him, crestfallen.  
  
"I need time to think."  
  
A knock at the door brought Hornblower to his feet. Remembering that he still wore the lime-green waistcoat and breeches and shocking yellow stockings that went with (clashed with, rather) the violet coat, he glanced at Archie for an instant, at a loss. Archie smiled back at him encouragingly.  
  
"Get that, will you, Archie?" Archie nodded, resplendent in bright pink and peach with accents of blue, and Hornblower dashed behind a screen.  
  
He heard the door creak open and a contralto pitched "Sink me, Mr. Kennedy!"  
  
"Ma'am, I'm going in for fashion." Kennedy stuttered.  
  
"It's your colour, all of 'em."  
  
Hornblower winced as Lady Redpath laughed. He was not prepared to face her in violent lime-green silk breeches.  
  
"What are you doing in my Mr. H's room, Lieutenant?"  
  
"Oh, well--" and Hornblower swore he could hear Archie's eyes dart towards the screen and then about the room--"The light's better in here."  
  
"Where did you find those clothes?"  
  
"Oh, Blakeney lent them to me. But I'm not his size, so I'll have to get them taken in a bit."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"So they'll fit, Ma'am."  
  
"And then, what, Lieutenant. What will Captain Pellew say about this outfit?"  
  
"Hopefully, he won't have occasion to say anything about this outfit, Ma'am."  
  
Hornblower heard Lady Redpath titter, and then, silence--broken by the steady creak of the floorboards as she approached the screen.  
  
"Mr. H., come out. Show a leg."  
  
"Give me a minute, Madame. Kennedy, would you pass me my clothes--" and again, Hornblower winced.  
  
"La! Mr. H. Is this how you receive visitors? The grand levee!"  
  
"No, certainly not." Hornblower said, gratefully receiving his undress uniform from Kennedy's outstretched hand.  
  
"But I am disappointed, you know. I had hopes of seeing you decked out."  
  
Hornblower frantically shucked off the rest of the silk ensemble. "Madame, I must disappoint you. Kennedy and I were merely...having a joke. I certainly don't intend to set foot outside in this apparel--" and, with that, he draped the lime-green waistcoat over the screen, and heard her giggle.  
  
"Zounds! That's nobody's colour! Does this belong to Blakeney as well?"  
  
"Yes. Though, I doubt, Madame, that he ever wore it."  
  
"You haven't seen him in full-London plumage, I'm afraid."  
  
Hornblower stepped out from behind the screen, buttoning up his (thankfully sober-coloured) waistcoat and met her eye. She curtseyed, he bowed, and then her gaze hardened.  
  
"Now, Mr. H., what are you up to?"  
  
"Madame?"  
  
"You're certainly going about it the wrong way."  
  
"Madame, Kennedy and I--"  
  
She stepped back, and shut the door behind her. Hornblower stiffed as the bolt clicked into place.  
  
"Gentlemen, when are you going to go to see Mr. Smith?"  
  
"T-t-today," Archie stammered.  
  
"Or, tomorrow--" Hornblower said.  
  
"Once we get our surgeons' outfits," Kennedy added.  
  
"No," Lady Redpath shook her finger at him. "You are going to go tonight. As yourselves. To Mr. Smith's favourite pub. You'll wait until he's had a few, and then buy him a few more."  
  
"I see..." Hornblower stared at her. Despite himself, he was both impressed and relieved. Lady Redpath smiled.  
  
"But, as far as you both know, I know nothing of this matter. I don't want to distress poor Lady Blakeney. Agreed?"  
  
Hornblower and Kennedy nodded. Lady Redpath smiled again and glanced at the lime-green waistcoat, draped over the screen.  
  
"You could cut a fine figure, Mr. H., if you tried."  
  
He flushed, feeling her eyes rake over him, and hurriedly made a bow. She laughed, unbolted the door, and left.

A few hours later and Archie and Horatio were on their way to Mr. Smith's favorite pub. The Mermaid was as bawdy as any pub Horatio had been in. Granted he hadn't been in too many, but just enough to know.  
  
As they entered the smoke filled room, Horatio wondered how they would spot Smith. "Archie, you head to the left and see if anyone knows who Smith is. I'll take this side and meet you back here." Archie nodded and began to mingle. It didn't take them long to find their target. He was seated in a corner already well into the happy hour.   
  
"Now what?" Archie asked.   
Horatio eyed the corner. "Well, let's go say hello, shall we."  
  
Together they approached the old farmer. He had a head of shockingly blond hair and Horatio wondered if it was caused by too much sun.   
  
"May we join you?" Horatio asked with a smile on his face. Smith eyed them suspiciously but gestered for them to sit.  
  
"What can I do for you?"  
  
Horatio glanced at Archie as he introduced them. "We are friends of Lord Blakeney."  
  
Smith's frown went into a broad smile and he burst into uproarious laughter. "Come to fight his battle for him I see!"  
  
Archie was obviously getting anger as he replied," No, Percy can fight his own battles. We are here as a warning to you."  
  
This only made tears stream down Smith's face as he continued laughing.  
  
Horatio nodded to the barmaid and ordered a round of drinks for them. Giving Archie a warning glance Horatio changed the subject.  
"So what kind of work do you do?"  
  
"The hard kind," he growled.   
"I don't have any need for fancy clothes or fancy houses like Blakeney. He is a fool."  
  
"How can you say that!" Archie argued.  
  
Smith greedily took the glass of rum from the barmaid. "Easy, he is a pansie. All his life he has never worked hard for anything. Everything is handed to him on a silver platter. Well no more gentlemen."  
  
Horatio glanced at Archie then back at Smith. "You know who we are, don't you Mr. Smith?"  
  
Taking a gulp of rum, he nodded.  
"You are sailors or some fluff like that."  
  
"Fluff!" Archie was steaming. Quickly Horatio put a glass of rum into Archie's hand. "Here, drink this," he said, trying to calm him down.  
  
Archie did as he was told but continued his ranting.  
"You think farming is hard, you should try being a sailor." The pride in Archie's voice took Horatio and Smith by suprise. They stared at him as he went on.  
"I was once like Blakeney, but the sea changes you. Everyday is a life or death struggle. Something I am sure you know nothing about Mr. Smith."  
  
Humbled by his speach Smith reaches his hand out to Archie. "I am sorry son. Please call me Samuel."  
  
Horatio couldn't believe his ears. He thought to himself," What is in this rum?"

"Yes, sir," Archie replied with a small, but growing smile.  
  
"Samuel!" Smith barked.  
  
"Samuel!" Archie echoed enthusiastically. He took a swig of rum, and spoke the name again.  
  
Hornblower tried to look pleasantly raucous, but his perplexity hampered his spirit.  
  
"Hey, son, did ye grow up about here?"  
  
"Not really, SAMUEL, but I was chums with Blakeney. We met at public school, and he'd have me over on holidays, sometimes, which was really nice, good food and so forth--" Kennedy cut himself off with another draught of rum.  
  
"Well," Smith peered at him closely, "There were a bunch of idle scroungers, beggin' your pardon, and I don't suppose I can pick you out."  
  
Archie giggled "I was the ghost, d'you remember?"  
  
Hornblower goggled at him. Archie's face was beginning to glisten, though it might have been merely the sweaty air of the pub. He swiped his forehead tentively and fought the urge to loosen his cravat--and, almost telepathically, Archie loosened his own at that moment.   
  
Smith bent forward abruptly, tipping back a bit as though he'd overshot the mark. "The ghost..."  
  
"yes! that was the year that that barn burnt down--"  
  
"What-"  
  
"There was grain stored in it, I don't remember anything else. Blakeney's father had to buy oats that year. I didn't have anything to do with that, but it happened a week before--" and Kennedy laughed.  
  
"No, I don't recall nothing."  
  
"Oh, good! See, you wouldn't have respected me. It was shocking, mildly, to put it..."  
  
"Kennedy," Hornblower put his arm on Archie's shoulder.  
  
"Kennedy, is that your name? Why do lots of you young turks have two last names instead of plain ordinary first and last ones?"  
  
"No, I'm Archie and," he pointed at Hornblower, "he's formal."  
  
"Formal?"  
  
Hornblower tried to smile. Archie laughed and waved at the barmaid, who sauntered over with more rum.  
  
"So, about this ghost?"  
  
"Well, they thought I was a ghost, seeing as I was in my nightshirt, and I didn't make any noise, because I was barefoot."  
  
"Bless me! I vaguely remember a haunting. Who was it who saw you, that old nag--"  
  
"Mrs. Ellen Curthold!" Kennedy crowed. "I tried to bolt in the bushes as fast as I could--What business does a widow have roaming about the lanes past one in the morning?"  
  
"And what would yours be, lad, in your nightshirt without your shoes?"  
  
"Oh, I had my shoes. I was carrying them in my hand. Anyway, that's over and done with now, and I'm an officer of the Royal Navy. And, though I've tipped over a bit tonight, generally I've improved myself."  
  
"Then why do you gad about with that Blakeney still?"  
  
"He's a good friend, my oldest friend, and he's not as bad as he seems, you know."  
  
Smith snorted. "Not as bad--that's pretty faint praise if I ever heard it."  
  
"I don't understand," Archie exclaimed, "this business about his losing the estate. It seems sort of shady."

Horatio stared at Archie in stunned silence as he continued to blabber on. Smith too was talking non stop. After a few more rounds, Horatio knew the rum was in control of both men. He on the other hand was still nursing his first glass. Hating the way alcohol affected him, Horatio had decided not to get drunk. Thus only drinking one glass.   
  
"Um, gentlemen, it is getting late," he announced. Archie and Samuel nodded as they chugged down the last of the rum. "May we escort you home Samuel?"  
  
The old man thought a moment, then smiled. "Yes that would grand!"   
  
Archie tried to stand up and finally Horatio had to help him to his feet. As he did Archie whispered," We have him right where we want him."   
  
Horatio had to turn his head for Archie's breath reeked of rum. "Yes," was all Horatio said and practically carried his friend out of the pub. It was late in the evening as the three men made their way in the dark. Samuel was singing some song out loud as they went. Archie was singing his on song. "How far to your home?" Horatio asked trying to shut them both up.   
  
"Not far," Samuel said, his speech badly slurred. A few minutes later they arrived at a tiny cottage. It was nothing compared to Blakeney's grand manor. Smith quickly opened the door and lit a candle. Horatio helped Archie inside and to a chair were he promptly fell asleep.   
  
Smith sat down on a bed in the corner and began to snore. Horatio stood and observed the two men for a moment, shaking his head. He would never understand why anyone would treat his body in such a way. Now he had a task to complete. Taking the candle he scanned the small room. Eyeing a desk behind the door he quickly walked to it. "Now to find something to help Blakeney," he thought out loud. Shuffling through the numerous papers he read each one. But nothing was there about property or Blakeney.  
  
"If I was Smith, were would I have those papers?" he thought to himself. "There!" he said with excitement. A small rug on the floor caught his attention. As he picked it up, underneath was a door. Quickly pulling it open, he cautiously started to descend down the stairs.

With candle in hand, Horatio peered about in the dark. The pitiful light barely penetrated a few feet in front of him. As he stood on the last step, he couldn't make out any walls. "What the devil is this place," he whispered, feeling a bit apprehensive. He wasn't afraid of the dark but something about this made him uneasy. Suddenly he remembered the hole in the prison and knew where his fears came from. Taking a deep breath he tried to calm himself. "You are being silly. There is no reason to fear anything here!"   
His speech wasn't working and he took a step backwards, heading back above ground. Before he could reach the top of the stairs, the little trap door slammed shut. Uncontrollable fear seized him and he lunged to the top step. He began pounding on the wood, screaming to be let out. Not a sound came from the other side. Horatio closed his eyes and tried to calm his heaving chest. "This is childish."  
  
After a few minutes he finally was able to walk back to the bottom of the stairs. Taking a deep breath he headed forward in search of a way out of his current prison.  
  
Carling smiled at the locked door on the floor. He knew Blakeney's friends would try something like this and was prepared to deal with them. Now he had to figure out what to do with the other one. Standing over Archie he contemplated his fate. "Well I can't kill him. That would bring the whole navy here." He began to pace in front of the drunken sailor. Placing a hand over his eyes, he sighed. "Suppose I could just drop him off at Blakeney's. No, no," he said thinking out loud. "I have to discredit him. That's it!" he whispered as an evil plan formed in his head. Blakeney's friends would suffer right along with him.   
  
Finally Horatio came to a wall in the darkness. His fear had subsided enough for him to think. Now that he had a wall, he would see just how big this room was. With his hand against the wooden wall, he walked along side. Suddenly the wood was gone. Swinging his candle he saw another room open up to him. "This place is huge!"  
Cautiously he entered the room. Again he couldn't make out how big the room was. Sniffing the air he swore it smelled of seawater. "That's impossible!" he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement. Something darted out of his light. Swallowing hard he watched the darkness, trying to see what was out there. It was definitely an animal. It most likely wasn't dangerous but still Horatio felt uncertain. He heard a scratching noise behind him. Whirling around he was relieved to see the rat dog at his feet.  
"Franny!" he cried in relief. "How in the blazes did you get down here?" Picking up the little dog Horatio felt great relief flood over him. His mind began turning and he decided Blakeney must have sent her on a mission. "Why else would you be here, hmmm," he said sweetly, soothing the excited little creature. Setting Franny back on the ground he encouraged her," There must be a way out of her, eh girl." With a wag of her tail Horatio set out following his rescuer, a dog.


	3. Part 3

Part 3

**Part 3**

Gingerly holding his candle out at arm's length, Hornblower followed Franny, marvelling that Smith's small hut should have such a huge warren underneath. Due to the darkness, he couldn't see very much, only that the floor underfoot was flagstones and dirty and wet in parts, and that there sometimes seemed to be large objects close by, old barrels or pieces of furniture, he couldn't tell for sure. It was cold and damp, and the thought that he might expire in such gloomy surroundings--Hornblower forced himself not to think this.   
  
A step or depression in the floor tripped him--he saved his candle, but not his stockings--he fell on his knees in a puddle. He heard Franny yip and waved (carefully!) his candle about, trying to catch a glimpse of her. Off to his left, he thought he saw her, but then he realized that there were several small animals, rats, which quickly scurried away. Franny barked, and Hornblower traced the sound with his pitifully small light, and there she was, standing in front on him. He was not fond of animals generally, but the sight of Blakeney's scrawny pet made him smile.  
  
Casting his light beyond the dog, Hornblower saw that the floor tipped downward. Franny started off again, and he followed her. She veered off to the left, through a doorway, and he followed her--almost taking his head off in the process, for the top of the passage was a few inches shorter than the top of his head. Hornblower crouched, and entered the passage. It was scarcely a metre wide, furthered narrowed by deposits or growths on the walls (he didn't want to look closer). His stomach flipped, and his breath caught, but he pushed on, downwards, following the little dog.  
  
The passage steadily grew more damp, the old air more moist. Finally, Franny yipped, and Hornblower could see and hear that she was trotting in a thin layer of water. She yipped again, and stopped, wagging her tail. After a moment's thought, Hornblower picked her up with his free hand, and continued down the passage, still stooped over, the water rising with each step. It began to seep into his shoes, and then it rose above them, to his ankles, to his knees--he felt his coattails catch in the water behind him, and it was so cold. He wondered why the dog wasn't wet, and concluded that she must have come down a different way, one perhaps that was too small for him. Or, maybe, she (and him) had another job to do before they got out.  
  
The water was at mid-thigh when Franny barked. Hornblower stopped, and saw that there was a narrow steep staircase off to his right. Gratefully, he set Franny down on the lowest dry step; she dashed up a few more, but Hornblower lingered, casting his light down the rest of the passage, which continued to descend. He fancied he could see the water meet its ceiling, but he wasn't sure. Shuddering with damp and claustrophobia, he waded up the first few steps.

Carling paced the floor of the hut, sneering slightly everytime Smith or Kennedy emitted a particularly loud snore. Smith was a decent old chap who had the idea that something was owing to him, and he was prepared to fight for compensation, and Carling was most willing to help him. As for the lieutenant--such an angelic looking boy, Carling snickered--he had plans for him...  
  
Carling had first met Smith when he was young and working as an errand-boy in a London law firm. His employer had among his clients a country stewart who managed the agricultural affairs of a prominent aristocratic estate. The farmer had inherited the post from his father, and he was adept at gauging the health of livestock and fields, of estimating yields and so forth, but he privately struggled with letters and, to a certain extent, numbers. Too proud to admit this to his master, Lord Blakeney, he snuck away to London, wandered about a bit (dazed, no doubt) and finally wound up in Carling,s office. Carling,s employer gracefully accepted the task, to balance Smith,s correspondence and books (though what Smith really wanted was an accountant) and he generously accepted small compensation. After many years, however, this lawyer (already advanced in years) divided up his clients among his associates and this particular case, which nobody wanted, fell to Carling, who had graduated up to clerk.  
  
And so, Carling, unaccountable and unsupervised and long-burdened with the restraints of his limited and precarious situation in life, gradually began to tweak the figures a bit, pocketing a few pound here, a few pound there, be it in currency or oats. Really, it was the old Lord Blakeney,s fault; the man could not be bothered to hire a competent servant, and so he deserved to be cheated. And as for Smith, why, he should have owed up to his failings and either improved himself or declined the post. Carling thought up a thousand justifications (as he did for every one of his schemes), practically convincing himself that he was doing nothing more than exacting justice.  
  
When the old Lord died, his son, by all accounts a ridiculous fop, miraculously found a set of brains. He seized upon the estate with a magnifying glass, and quickly dug up the indiscrepancies in Smith,s accounts. These were too numerous to be ignored, and so Smith was sacked--gently, but decidedly.  
  
Smith, unaware of what was really going on, was outraged. He considered Blakeney, s action disgusting--why, if Blakeney wished to run the estate by himself, he might have done so without discrediting an honest man such as Smith, who had served the family faithfully for years and years.   
  
Carling panicked--briefly. He had other things going on; he could do without his gains from the Blakeney estate. But, Smith visited him in London, and waxed about the injustice of the affair, and while Carling nodded and sympathized, he heard not a word of the tirade. He did, however, see a bigger fish to fry than a few sacks of potatoes.  
  
In his various other-than-legitimate dealings, he had picked up a few skills and a few acquaintances. He cracked the offices of the late Blakeney,s lawyer, and discovered the vacillating will---the old man had numerous last testaments inscribed, some crediting his some, others not, and, in this mess, given identical papers and inks and seals and a knack at forgery, Carling found that the matter was simple enough. However, the young Blakeney was a smart one, and so he took his time, and started to dig about.  
  
And he discovered, to his surprise and enlightenment, that the young fop was spiriting French aristos out of France! and that he had involved a number of England,s young heirs in this activity. Of course, this was hardly a crime, not when England was at war with France, but Blakeney,s association with these Frenchmen, and his connections abroad, could be viewed as suspicious. Carling was still tinkering with his plot, but, basically, he had proof that Blakeney was a spy. At least, Blakeney thought so. Given this threat and that of the discrediting will, Blakeney was cornered. Of course, given his aristocratic blood, he might not be hanged; likely, he would be exiled, and the estate would pass to Smith, who would naturally (unless he suddenly became a whizz at letters and numbers) retain the services of his trusted servant Carling.  
  
And, as for Blakeney,s friends, the two young lieutenants...Carling had thought a bit about how to dispose of them. The tall one was now wandering about the remains of what used to be the cellars and dungeons of the old Blakeney castle, long since crumbled. Carling knew his way about some of the subterraneous maze, but not enough to assure himself that the lieutenant was trapped. But this did not worry him. In fact, he hoped that the lieutenant would eventually emerge, beaten, waterlogged, utterly exausted, only to find out that he should have stayed below ground, and better yet, taken his blond fellow officer down with him, sparing both of them the shame.  
  
For their names were about to be tarnished. Stealing naval dispatches and selling these to the French, was a serious crime. And they did not have the cushion of Blakeney,s station, not even Kennedy, who was only a fourth son of a minor estate.

A knock on the door brought Carling out of his thoughts. He sighed in relief," Finally, re-enforcements."  
  
But when he opened the door, to his shock and horror, Blakeney stood in the doorway.   
"Well, what are you doing here at this hour, sir?" Percy asked not hiding the suspicion in his voice.   
  
Carling blocked his view and tried to squeeze his body into the small doorframe. "I was just checking up on my client," he growled. "What are you doing here? This isn't exactly your part of town."  
  
Percy laughed out loud, making Carling more nervous. He was up to something.  
"Actually my friends have gone missing and Lady Blakeney sent me after them. We don't want them to get into any trouble. You haven't seen them have you?"  
  
Percy strained his neck trying to see around Carling's fat little body. "No," he responded too eagerly. "But if I see them I will send them home."   
  
A loud snore escaped from the dark cottage, raising Percy's eyebrow. "And who pray tell is that?" Percy pushed past the little man and immediately spotted Archie asleep in the corner.   
  
"Well if I didn't know better I would say that is one of my friends."   
  
Carling only half smiled. "Oh is he?" he said, playing dumb. "I didn't know who he was. Just thought old Samuel was taking in homeless boys."  
  
Percy was through playing games. He whirled around and grabbed the fat man violently by his collar. "Tell me were the other one is and I won't rip your head off."  
  
Carling was shaking with fear. "I-I-I haven't seen him!"   
  
Percy shoved him back, sending him crashing to the floor. Quickly he scanned the small house but no sign of Horatio. His anger was growing as he turned once more on Carling. Pulling him to his feet Percy snarled," This is your last chance man! Tell me were he is or I swear to hell, I'll break your scrawny little neck!"  
  
"Not bloody likely!" a rough voice called out behind him. Percy turned just in time to see two very large men entering the tiny cottage.  
  
Horatio had to stop and catch his breath. He had been walking non-stop for over an hour. But it wasn't easy walking. Up and down broken stairs, stumbling about in the dark was hard on his feet. Franny climbed into his lap. Silently he petted her, giving him some comfort. He had underestimated the dog. To think that he would someday have his life depend on an animal seemed unbelievable to him. "Enough dawdling," he sighed and chuckled to himself thinking about Captain Pellew. How he wished he was back on the Indy and not lost in some bizarre underground maze. Checking his candle he worried about how much light the little wick had left. "Better hurry up or I'll be doing this in the dark," he said to himself. Once again Franny took the lead and Horatio followed close behind her. Somehow he trusted this dog. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. This gave him a bit of comfort as he stepped around some broken stones. "If I ever get out of here, you are getting the biggest piece of English beef I can find!" Franny yipped excitedly as if she understood, making Horatio laugh. The laugh made an eerie noise as it echoed into the darkness.

Blackeney fell to his knees, his temple ringing from the blow dealt by one of Carling's henchmen. The other stepped forward and grabbed Blackeney's arms, wrenching them behind his back.  
  
"What was that about my neck, you say?" Carling crowed.  
  
"You heard me, you slithery thief," Blakeney retorted. The thug holding his arms twisted them up higher, causing him to gasp, "I'd sooner burn my estate than have you pollute it."  
  
"Well, that would be a shame. I'm rather fond of the tapestry in Lady Blakeney's bedroom."  
  
BLakeney lunged forward, but the pressure on his arms quickly checked him. "Odious wretch--"  
  
"That's enough," Carling clipped, motioning at his other thug.  
  
---------  
  
  
Lady BLakeney waited in her carriage, scanning the forest around her. She was on a lane, about a half mile from BLakeney HAll, and there was nobody nearby but Lady Redpath, sitting (dozing) on the seat opposite her, and the coachman on his box outside. It was morning, full-lit, with the mist and dew quickly evaporating.  
  
  
Lady Redpath had confided to her that the two young lieutenants had gone to question Smith at the tavern. This did not give either lady great cause for concern at first, but, at three o'clock in the morning, Lady BLakeney arose from a nightmare--she couldn't remember exactly what she had dreamt, only that she was in a dark underground maze. She had yelled in her sleep, and her maid VIolaine, roused by the noise, went to her side, and then, suddenly, LAdy Blakeney thought of the two lieutenants. Had they returned? No, madame.  
  
Lady Blakeney considered at that point that perhaps she was too concerned. Life as an actress in PAris had certainly shown her dawn from the other end; two young men like Kennedy and Hornblower, however serious they appeared to be, were fit to carouse until the rooster crowed. BUt her apprehensions did not quit her.  
  
Wrapping a dressing coat over her chemise, Lady BLakeney walked down the hall to her husband's suite. Peering at his door, she saw light peeping around the edges, and thus summoned the courage to knock. She hardly knew him! he had changed so much since he had left her on his diplomatic mission, and she ferverently wished that this business about the estate could be resolved.  
  
BLakeney answered the door, greeting her with a genuine smile, sweeping her into his chambers with only a hint of his foppish facade. He studied her countenance quickly but intently.  
  
"Marguerite--what's wrong?"  
  
And she told him everything, she knew about the estate and about Smith and Carling, that the two lieutenants were at the tavern, and that she was extremely worried, though it wasn't really late yet, and could she send Franny to fetch them?  
  
Blakeney kissed her and whistled for Franny. The little dog trotted up and sat gravely before him, cocking her head at every inflection of his voice.  
  
"Franny, sweetie, we have to rescue the officers." BLakeney hurriedly threw on an overcoat, gave MArguerite directions to pack the lieutenants, things, wait with the carriage at a certain secluded spot in the estate's forest, and ordered Franny to track the lieutenants. He kissed her again and was gone.  
  
So, now she was here, in the carriage, with the lieutenants' two trunks lashed behind. Lady Redpath had helped her pack them.  
  
Lady REdpath stirred and yawned. "Any sign of them yet?"  
  
Marguerite glanced out of each of the carriage's windows. "No. I know that Franny will track them, but I am so worried! It's that lawyer--I'm sorry that those young officers became involved--you know, in London, that man was accused of poisoning someone, a young man, too. He is absolutely ruthless."  
  
"And what sort of proof does he have against BLakeney?"  
  
"Oh, a will, some papers--BLakeney wouldn't say much about that. He's more concerned with getting the officers back on their ship and out of harm's way. So," Marguerite laughed ruefully, "Carling won't stab them in the back, but they'll have their heads blown off or something in the meantime. THey are brave men."  
  
"And your husband is every bit as courageous. He'll find them."  
  
"But he's been gone for hours now. WHat time is it?"  
  
Lady REdpath fished a man's pocket watch out of her riding coat pocket. "Half-past eight."  
  
Lady BLakeney fidgetted in her seat and glanced anxiously out of the window.

Samuel Smith stirred and eased open his bleary eyes, yawning as the interior of his hut slowly came into focus. He was on his cot, as usual, with a hankering for the hair of the dog that bit him, as usual, and for the first few minutes, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was a young man asleep in his battered wing-back chair, but that was normal too. Often, one of the lads, fearing that he was too late to be let back into his house, would come back and sleep off his excess in Smith's house. Smith liked the company, anyway, even when he was hung-over. Nothing took the sting out as much as seeing someone else a few shades greener.  
  
Smith yawned again and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. "Blest me," he murmured, staring at the sleeping youth, "that's a uniform he's decked out in."   
  
Smith glanced around his cottage, trying to piece together the events from the previous night. He remembered the officer from the pub, but there had been two of them there. How it happened that one of them wound up in his house and not the other was a mystery. SMith peered at his hut some more, and started to frown.  
  
Now, good Missus Smith had spent the last ten years fertilizin' (Samuel Smith missed her dearly, but he was of a practical agricultural bent) and, consequently, his abode had reverted to bachelor. He didn't have much in the way of decor or furniture, anyway, and so his main failings were merely an indulgent acceptance of dust, soot, dirt, and a penchant for spitting on the floor.   
  
But something had decidedly happened last night. The floor was scuffed up, and one of his rickety chairs was broken, and there were shards from the earthenware jug that had been on his table, which, in turn, had been pushed from its usual spot.  
  
Smith got to his feet and shuffled over to the sleeping lieutenant, wracking his brains for the lad's name. He finally came up with "Curthold's Ghost", and he did recall that the other man was called "Formal", and that one of them had two last names...as far as he could remember.  
  
The lieutenant was sleeping, but his breathing was shallow and quick. Smith bent closer and saw that he was pale. His forehead felt clammy, as did his hands. Smith, with a hesitant callused forefinger, peeled back the youth's eyelid, exposing an enlarged pupil nearly obscuring the iris, which seemed to ocillate, twitching back and forth rapidly.  
  
Smith stepped back, his own headache evaporated. The young man was taken in some way; he was more than merely hung-over.   
  
Where could he go for help? There was an old midwife in the village who doubled as nurse; Smith did not trust doctors. But the man came from the great house, and so Smith steeled himself to step into enemy territory. But he was prevented from stepping outside his own house.  
  
"Mister Smith," Carling smiled, "I have matters under control, don't you fear."  
  
"I suppose, Gov', but the boy's taken rather odd--"  
  
"He'll come about, have no fear. Have I ever given you cause to mistrust me? I have already attended to him," Carling purred, sliding his way into the hut. "Why don't you sit down and relax?"

The two big men dragged the semi-conscious form of Blakeney deeper into the woods. He was no match for the thugs but fought with all he was worth. Unfortunately it wasn't enough to escape. His mind spun with pain as he tried to push the darkness away. Slowly the light engulfed him and he realized it was now morning. But where were these brutes taking him? He didn't recognize any of the landmarks even if he could barely see riding slung over one of the thug's backs. His thoughts quickly went to Lady Blakeney and Lady Redpath. "Dear God, let them be all right."  
  
"Think this is far enough?" the ugly one asked.  
  
"I reckin' so. No one will find him anytime soon," the dumb one stated.  
  
With one quick jerk Blakeney was dumped onto the wet ground. Still he faked being unconscious. The ugly one reached down and grabbed him by the collar. "Wake up frog!"  
  
With the speed of lightening Blakeney whirled on his enemy, knocking the unexpecting man backward with a well-placed blow to his face. The dumb one was stunned a second giving Blakeney his chance to attack. He flung himself on top of the dumb one. He was now engaged in the fight of his life.  
  
Horatio cried out in pain as he slammed his knee into a small pile of stones. "For heaven's sake!"  
Franny returned to his side, wagging her tail. As Horatio rubbed his sore knee he thought he saw light ahead. "No, I am seeing things," he said to himself. He closed his eyes tight then reopened them. Sure enough there was light ahead. Jumping to his feet he followed Franny and prayed that his nightmare was almost over. Her tail was going a mile a minute. Walking carefully around one last wall Horatio emerged into bright sunlight. Slowly a smile spread across his face. He was finally free of the eerie maze. Suddenly Franny darted past him, running into the woods.   
"Franny! Come back!" Horatio called out. Dropping the now extinguished candle he trotted off in the direction of the frantic little dogs yips.   
  
As he pushed through the underbrush he thought he heard the sounds of a struggle. Coming to a clearing he was surprised to see Blakeney. But he was in a bit of trouble, fighting two rather mean looking men. Horatio didn't hesitate as he leaped onto the ugly one's back. Percy gave him a quick smile and turned his full attention on the dumb one. Within minutes it was all over. Carling's brutes lay unconscious at Percy and Horatio's feet.  
  
"Well Mr. Hornblower," Percy began between gasps of breath," very nice of you to join me. Thank you."  
  
Horatio was breathing hard too. "I didn't want you to have all the fun."   
  
"Franny!" Percy said relieved as he noticed his dog at his feet. "I knew you would find him old girl." He held open his arms as she sprang into his waiting embrace. Horatio couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of man and beast.   
  
"I guess I owe your dog the biggest piece of English beef I can find."  
  
"Yes, but first we must get back to Smith's cottage. I fear Carling has Mr. Kennedy and there's no telling what he has done to him."   
  
Quickly both men set off, following Franny once again.

The two unconscious thugs were trussed back to back against a slim tree with Blakeney and Hornblower's cravats and stockings; their own ragged complements of these artices reinforced the bonds. Horatio and Blakeney had turned their pockets inside out, but had discovered nothing besides a few pence and a collection of knives.   
  
Blakeney pressed his handkerchief to his mouth to stop his split lip from bleeding. Despite himself, he couldn't help grinning at Hornblower, and it was a gruesome sight. Hornblower preferred this smile, however bloodsmeared Blakeney's teeth, to the strained foppish smirks that Blakeney used to serve him.  
  
Horatio picked a few twigs out of his hair. Franny yipped and trotted away, and the two men followed her.   
  
"Who was at the cottage, BLakeney--Percy--besides those two brutes?"  
  
"Carling, and perhaps Smith too. I wasn't sure if the farmer was there. But I saw your friend, there. He was unconcious."  
  
Horatio broke into a jog. "Quickly, we must save him--"  
  
Blakeney grapped his arm and stopped in his tracks. "Horatio--wait--I've an idea--"  
  
Quickly, Blakeney dashed back to the thugs, and, seizing a thick branch off the ground, gave them each a couple of clouts on the head.  
  
"Blakeney!" Horatio cried, aghast, imaging Kennedy tortured in a thousand ways. Blakeney whacked one of the thugs a few more times.  
  
"He won't hurt Archie...much--in a permanent way, that is, sort of like what I'm doing now," Blakeney called back, loosening the thugs' bonds.  
  
"What are you doing--" Then and there, Hornblower saw BLakeney's scheme and dashed back to him. Dropping on his knees, he untied the closer thug's ankles.   
  
"I think I know what Carling has planned for Archie, and for you, too--"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Oh, yes," Blackeney worked the cravat free and his thug, freed from his pinions, slumped forward. "Carling hasn't confined his efforts to me--and I'm beginning to think that Smith hasn't a clue there--there's so much to discover. But, this, is a start."  
  
He withdrew from his pocket a crumpled piece of paper. Horatio glanced at it and paled slightly. It bore the crest and seal of the Admiralty (and the seal was broken). He could not bring himself to read the contents.  
  
"I doubt that it's real," Blakeney told him, stuffing the paper back into his pocket. "That's not to say that it isn't dangerous." Franny found it for me, in Smith's cottage. Carling has many talents. Help me strip this leviathan."  
  
Together, the two men eased the clothes off the thugs, a task made unpleasant by the bulk of the unconscious men and the stink and greasiness of their clothing. Finally, they had the thugs down to their disreputably ragged smalls, a covering second to that of their hair and filth.  
  
"I say," Blakeney piped in echo of his vanished swank, "Sink me if these blokes are acquainted with soap and water."  
  
Steadfastly, but inwardly cringing, Horatio helped BLakeney replace the bonds. They scooped up the clothes and strode away.  
  
"We'll tell my wife first--don't worry, she's nearby. You know, Horatio," Blakeney smiled ruefully, "I've thought myself clever, and that has blinded me to a few things."

  
"Mr. Carling, the lad's taken awful!" Smith cried, as Kennedy's body wrenched out of the chair onto the floor. The young lieutenant's eyes remained eerily blank as his face twitched and his limbs sawed back and forth violently.   
  
"This is a trifle!" Carling shrieked, stealing a glance out of the window. His two minions were overdue, long overdue to arrive, and the vial in his pocket was empty. He had poured all of it into the lieutenant's gullet; initially, it had calmed the young man, but now it was wearing off. Worse still, there was none left to deal with Smith. Carling felt the sweat on his fat neck rise.  
  
Kennedy jerked himself halfway across the floor, hitting a table leg. In his next spasm, he hooked it with his leg, pulling the entire heavy oak table over. It narrowly missed him at it crashed to the floor.   
  
Carling and Smith gazed at him, stupified. Both men had seen their share of thrashing about, but there was something alien and omnipotent in the lieutenant's convulsions.  
  
Smith sprang to Kennedy's side and tried to subdue him by pinning his flailing arms to his side. The lieutenant, thus prisoned for a fleeting second, lurched violently and broke free, throwing Smith off a few yards. Smith's head struck the wall and the old farmer crumbled to his side.  
  
Carling, aghast, scurried as far away as possible to the back of the hut, squeezing his fleshy rump into a corner. A whimper escaped his lips as the full catalogue of his crimes flashed before his eyes.   
  
And then his panicked gaze fell upon the trapdoor, a few paces away.   
  
-------------------------  
  
  
"Mon Dieu!" "Lor!"  
  
Marguerite and Lady Redpath cried out simultatiously as the two ragged figures approached the carriage. Marguerite rapped on the side to rouse the sleeping coachman--but, at that instant, a piercing yip rang out from outside. Lady Redpath exhaled in relief as a tiny dervish of white and brown fur bounded through the scrub into view.  
  
"Mais pourquoi, Percy?!" Marguerite laughed as Blakeney, clad in the thug's odiferous ragged costume with his face smeared in mud, strode over and tapped on the coach window, and she slid it open. The lieutenant, Hornblower, similarly attired, stepped to Blakeney's side and bowed crisply.  
  
Blakeney had taken to the disgusting costume with great ease, and was now indulging even in his old foppish mannerisms, as though he was garbed once more in his silks and powder. The filth, however, disgusted Hornblower, who was accustomed to bathing himself on deck every day. How far away the trim and tidy Indy seemed now!  
  
"Stack me, Joyeux Noel and Happy New Year, you lot!" Blakeney trilled, grinning to the widest of his faculties. The tension caused his injured lip to bleed anew. "Champagne, anyone?"  
  
"Oh, your lip!" Marguerite grapped her handkerchief and, reaching through the open window, pressed it to Blakeney's mouth. "Please, be still, Percy!" she chided him as he shook in laughter.  
  
"Heh, it's the Gov'!" the coachman cried, awakening at last.  
  
His anxiety worsening, Hornblower tapped Blakeney on the shoulder, curtailing his antics. Blakeney, his mouth still mobilized, motioned at Marguerite and then at Hornblower, and stepped slightly aside, so that Hornblower could face the window.  
  
"My ladies," Hornblower nodded, "we have to go and rescue my friend Archie. He's being held captive by the lawyer."  
  
The two women nodded in return.  
  
"I presume that you are in disguise?" Lady Redpath inquired. Hornblower nodded. "Tell us what we must do."  
  
"Ma'am, if the carriage could be driven to the lane just out of sight of the hut...my friend is unconscious."  
  
"We'll bring him to you, and then you must take him to London, to the offices of the Admiralty. Horatio here will go with you, as will this item--" Blakeney fished out the crumbled forged document and passed it to Marguerite, "--and other such things that we may find. It is a fine forgery, one which would normally pass, but, I hope, it will not withstand close scrutiny." Blakeney pointed inside the carriage. "Under the forward seat, in an iron box, which you will find unlocked, is a statement that I wrote early this morning, attesting to the lieutenants' innocence and briefly outlining Carling's own career. I've included the names of numerous witnesses to his past crimes. I'm sure that, with my affirmation and their evidence, Horatio and Archie's names will be cleared, if they have yet been besmirched. We still don't know how much Carling has done."  
  
"And Carling?" Hornblower asked.  
  
Blakeney, reaching into another pocket, withdrew a sample of the thug's daggers. "If it comes to this...Marguerite, you still have my pistols?--"  
  
Marguerite nodded and handed them to him. Horatio cleared his throat.  
  
"Percy, I'm going with you, to deal with Carling. After we rescue Kennedy."  
  
Blakeney shook his head. "I think--"  
  
"I insist. Archie and I swore to get you out of this mess."  
  
"You didn't know what was at stake."  
  
"A promise is a promise."  
  
"Very well," Blakeney grinned, clapping Hornblower on the shoulder. "I feared that you would insist, but more so that you wouldn't. It'll take both of us to flush out that flabby little devil."  
  
Hornblower shook his proferred hand and felt himself smile. And heard a sharp yip of protest from Franny.  
  
"Oh, I stand corrected," Blakeney exclaimed, picking up the small dog and holding her to his face. Franny barked and wriggled excitably. "The THREE of us! We'll never know when we'll need your nose, my sweet!"

Carling quickly whipped open the trapdoor and escaped down into the dark. He was in too much of a hurry to light a candle. But it was no matter to him. He had used this route many times before to elude Smith from catching him going through the man's personal things. His heart was still pounding with fear as the image of Kennedy convulsing and Smith unconscious crept into his mind. "If one of them dies, that's murder!" he thought. His plan was falling apart. Quickly he rounded a corner in the dark. He only hoped he didn't run into Hornblower. He figured the young man was still stumbling about down here somewhere.  
  
Horatio and Percy stood ready at Smith's door. Percy signaled with his fingers, one, two, three! They burst through the door at the same time. But Carling was gone and only silence greeted them. That and two unconscious forms. Horatio knelt by the deathly still Archie while Percy attended to Smith. "Is he alive?" Percy asked making sure the old man was breathing. "Yes," Horatio said with concern," but he is not well." Archie was as white as a sheet. "Archie, can you hear me?" Horatio said and patted his cold cheek.   
After what seemed like hours Archie moved. A sigh of relief escaped Horatio's lips. "Percy, help me get him on the cot."  
  
As the men gently set him on the bed, they had not noticed little Franny. She was digging frantically at the trapdoor.

Blakeney rifled through Smith's papers, flipping through piles of bills and receipts and business letters. "No naval dispatches, Horatio! If he still has them, they're somewhere else."  
  
Kneeling, Horatio shook Smith by the shoulder. The old man murmured but didn't wake up.  
  
"He's fairly out, Percy, but I think none the worse for wear. If we just prop him up in his chair--"  
  
They hoisted Smith up and brought him to his chair. A muffled snore escaped the old man.  
  
"That's the spirit, chap." Blakeney glanced about the appartment. "Now, where would Carling keep papers?"  
  
Franny barked, pawing at the trapdoor. Hornblower and Blakeney glanced at her simultaniously, and Hornblower, despite himself, sighed. Cringing from his involuntary reaction, he cleared his throat.  
  
"Ha-hmm...we must go down and get him, Percy."  
  
They glanced back at Archie.  
  
"Let's carry Archie back to the carriage, as planned. We'll pick up a lantern--"  
  
"Leave the lad to me," Smith rasped. "Flint and lantern's on the mantle."  
  
The old farmer, slumped in his chair, stared at them with bleary eyes, pressing a hand to his head. With the other, he motioned to the trapdoor.  
  
"Smith-" Blakeney started. The old farmer cut him off with a wave of his hand and pointed at the trapdoor with more emphasis. Blakeney nodded and opened the trapdoor. Hornblower dashed to the mantle and lit the lantern.  
  
"Candle--" Smith waved to his upended table. There was a candle lying on the floor nearby. Hornblower thanked him and picked it up. He joined Blakeney, who had Franny tucked under his arm--they waved at Smith, and descended.  
  
  
--------------  
  
Carling trotted down a derelict passage, wheezing twice to every step. The dirt and loose stones underfoot cracked and slid about treacherously. A particular stone rolled under Carling's foot, nearly sending him flying. He stopped and clasped his hands to his thudding heart.  
  
Come to think of it, he hadn't ever dared to go down here without a light before. He panicked for an instant, dashing towards the wall. It was closer than he'd thought--his hands met it suddenly, and he gasped. The wall was covered with a cold moist cloth or moss which fell apart through his fingers. Carling wrenched his hands away in disgust.  
  
The repulsive contact cooled his fright. Carling surveyed his surroundings calmly. All he saw was pitch-black, but he'd had been down here with a lamp or candle enough times to know what was there.   
  
Who knows what had happened to his thugs? They weren't geniuses, and since he didn't command them to come back--as he thought about it, he recalled that he had forgotten to give them this order--they had probably gone to the tavern. Or maybe they were waiting beside their victim. He had found them thus before, cowering beside a man they'd recently stabbed while the sounds of dogs and horses and yelling men, of their victim's family, grew louder and louder. They would have run away, but they were so afraid of him, they daren't move a step without his command. It simply never occurred to them that the pair of them could easily pulverize him, or, even more simply, run away. Likely, they were still patiently waiting beside whatever remained of that silly, frog-saving, dandy noble.  
  
Coolly, Carling decided that he had time enough to retrieve his hidden papers. There was the question of the lieutenant too, but his candle had surely gone out by this time, and he was probably reduced to a gibbering madman by the dark and the damp. Indeed, the surroundings were repulsive enough to even scare someone who knew his way about quite well, someone like him. Reassured, Carling wiped his hands on his coat and trudged on.

Horatio and Percy slowly descended into the maze. Horatio shuddered but felt some relief at not having to go through this again by himself. Percy set Franny down and like a bolt of lightening she was off. "This won't take long!" Percy smiled as he quickly darted after the little dog. Horatio followed close behind, making sure to watch every step he took.   
  
Carling lean against something in the dark. He was out of breath and wheezing uncontrollably. "You have to calm down," he thought. But panic was setting in as he realized he was lost. He should have never come down here without a candle! He took a step forward only to trip on a broken stone in the dark. As he fell he twisted his leg, screaming out in agony.   
  
His cries echoed in dark but Horatio and Percy both heard them. "Must be him," Horatio commented.  
  
"Yes, I would say he is in a bit of trouble," Percy said. Suddenly he stopped.   
  
"What is it? Percy?"  
  
"What if we don't find him? What if no one finds him?"  
  
Horatio didn't like the sound of this nor the look in his friend's eye.  
"Percy we can't just leave him down here to die!"  
  
"Yes we can Horatio. Look what he did to your friend. For all we know he was trying to kill him."  
  
"No," Horatio stated firmly," I won't let him die down here. No man deserves that. Not even him."  
  
Horatio took the lead and followed Franny. After a moment Percy reluctantly joined him.

The lawyer's high-pitched shrieks grew louder and less distorted by the reverberation of the underground chambers and tunnels. As he walked towards the noise, Hornblower wracked his mind about the forged naval dispatch that Blakeney had showed him--who knew how many more Carling had made, and where he had sent them--these uncertainies, coupled with the damp maze of the dungeon, made Hornblower uneasy. Blakeney seemed to think that his (Hornblower's) and Kennedy's names could be cleared, but, still...to have his fate so much in other people's hands did not sit well with Hornblower at all.  
  
"Horatio--stop--"  
  
Hornblower glanced back at Blakeney. "Percy, we must rescue him. I'm sorry if this displeases you, but after having been down here alone, I really can't, in my conscience, leave him likewise."  
  
Blakeney smirked. "That doesn't surprise me. But, can you, in your conscience (sterling as it is), scare him a little?"   
  
Hornblower felt his mouth waver into a smile. Then he thought of Archie, and his countenance fell. "Percy--"  
  
"After all he's done, he hardly deserves to be handled with kid gloves. Your career was almost ruined, and my estate almost lost, and now my ribs hurt frightfully thanks to his thugs--"  
  
'Percy..."   
  
"Not to mention that we went to the trouble of disguising ourselves in these foul rags to surprise him, and he even thwarted that design--sink me if I've taken these pains for nothing!" Blakeney outstretched his arms and pivoted, displaying a tattered and splattered garment that was once a great-coat.  
  
"Very well," Hornblower nodded, as a particularly piercing cry rang out, "but our efforts will be redundant. He's scaring himself pretty well without us."   
  
Blakeney laughed. "I admire you for your insight, Horatio." Stooping, he whistled Franny over, and put her in his pocket. His hands freed, he arranged some of his rags over his face, and Horatio followed suit, though the odour, so close to his nose, nearly gagged him. He covered his lantern, leaving only the barest sliver of light to guide them, and they resumed their approach of the screams.  
  
  
  
--------------------  
  
  
Carling, lying on his back, fought for breath as panic squeezed his lungs and heart and head. The damp blackness of his surroundings pressed closer towards him and he began to hear horrible dripping and slimy noises, and his agile mind, which had so successfully seized upon and improved his oportunities, turned its works to more distressing possibilities. Were those footsteps? Carling shrieked, but his wind was short, cutting him off quickly. The sound echoed for five long seconds, and his fancy, fired up, populated the blackness about him with all manner of loathsome crawling slithery creatures, small dark things with sharp pincers, moist white things that pulsated and left trails of goo. The echoes died out, and Carling began to hear new sounds between the erratic drips, tiny scurrying sounds. Panting, he tried to get up on his feet, but his lamed leg buckled beneath him, burning up in pain from ankle to hip. He tried to collect himself, and dug his fingers into the moist cracks beneath him, and dragged himself a few feet. Uncertain of the direction, however, he stopped, and held his breath. Something skittered across his hand--he wrenched it away with another scream. His injured leg was pierced by a thousand tiny points of pain combined with a larger one that was so huge and encompasing that he could hardly tell where it emanated from--were insects nibbling away on his leg? Were they devouring him slowly? Carling imagined losing, at painful increments, his smallest most extreme parts, his fingers and his toes, working up to his hands and feet, and onward, the insects multiplying by chewing holes in his torso in which to lay their eggs, feasting on his tasty warm organs in the meantime, riddling his body from the neck down with countless passages to rival those of the maze he now lay in, leaving him only his head and his pain in perfect working order. Carling began to weep. He could last for days, weeks. Screwing his eyes shut, he flailed his arms and legs about, dislodging the insects, but the exercise tired and pained him and he stopped, and felt faint movements creep over him again. Shuddering with disgust and despair, he closed his eyes tighter, forgetting that the blackness prevented him from seeing them.  
  
And, suddenly, a huge claw latched itself around his neck, hauling him up until his feet dangled. The Grandfather High Emperor of Insects! Carling realized that his eyes were probably a delicacy--at the same time, he felt a new, warmer wetness flow down his legs--and then he felt nothing more.  
  
  
Captain Pellew thumbed through the stack of documents on his desk. On top was a report by Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, followed by one from Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy, and below these, convincingly similar to true Admiralty documents, was the fictional and sensational oeuvre, two inches thick, of the recently deceased London lawyer Mr. Carling. Hornblower and Kennedy stood before Pellew's desk, eyeing the documents with faint trepidation. Their names were clear of any and all mud smeared by Carling, and they had seen Carling's corpse stone cold, and they were once again aboard on the Indy, safe and sound...but the events of the past several days were too disturbing to vanish at once. Hornblower was the least stricken of the two, afflicted only by scattered memories of his vacation in the crypt; Kennedy, drugged into a stupor, was still pale and weak, swaying slightly on his feet.   
  
Pellew glanced up at this point and motioned towards a bench nearby. Kennedy sat down with some relief and Hornblower followed suit. Pellew cleared his throat.  
  
"I regret, lads, that you have had such a trial. I was expecting, and hoping for, a nice vacation in the country for the two of you. As it happens, you have had scarce time to draw breath. Out of the frying pan into the fire, as it were."  
  
"Nevertheless, Sir," Hornblower spoke, "we would not have shirked our duty even if we'd known what we were getting into." Kennedy nodded in agreement.  
  
"And much good came out of our efforts, Sir. That lawyer had many victims."  
  
"He was a horrid man," Archie added.   
  
"And he died a horrid death. Most fittingly. Heart attack from extreme fright. Well, it's not wise to go down into a dark crypt with a heavy conscience." Pellew thumped the stack of paper on his desk. "There is much to commend you boys for, and your friend Blakeney has been quite active on your behalf, and I don't doubt that some sort of official congratulation will eventually come your way. Meanwhile, on my own behalf...I am proud of you both. Given such irregular and trying circumstances, you conducted yourselves well, and His Majesty's Navy hasn't seen the last of either of you." Pellew stepped out from behind his desk and shook their hands in turn, giving each a hearty tap on the shoulder with his free hand.  
  
"Thank-you, Sir!" Archie beamed.  
  
"Thank-you, Sir!" Horatio echoed, a shade less enthusiastically. Pellew noticed this and cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"Not pleased enough, Hornblower?"  
  
"Oh, no Sir, I value your good opinion. It's just that--" Hornblower let his eyes stray to Carling's forgeries on Pellew's desk. "I fear that it's not over, that I and Lieutenant Kennedy aren't out of this business yet. We don't know exactly what or how much the lawyer did, we never had a chance to question him, he died rather suddenly, right after Lord Blakeney grabbed him."  
  
"Not before he forgot himself, overflowed with an excess of emotion, perhaps..." Pellew chuckled. The two lieutenants stared at him. "Oh, come on lads, you may smile a little. It's rather funny in a pathetic sort of vein--now, that's more like it!"   
  
His grin reflected by Archie and Hornblower, he pumped their hands once more.  
  
"I believe that there are four guests on the quarterdeck--they wish to give you their regards. Shall we?" Smiling, Pellew led them up to the deck where two men and two women waited. Then and there ensued a delightful confusion as everyone tried to cram several greetings at once.  
  
"Percy!" Archie cried. Hornblower took Blakeney's hand while bowing to the Ladies Blakeney and Redpath; Archie dashed to the second man, and offered his hand--"Mister Smith!" The farmer grabbed Archie and embraced him tightly. "Just call me Samuel, you young monkey!" Meanwhile, his hand clasped in Lady Redpath's (formerly known as Kitty Cobham, actress), Hornblower tried to thank Percy Blakeney. Seeing the two young lieutenants thus pinioned, Lady Blakeney thanked them and kissed them lightly on their cheeks in turn. Farmer Smith relinguished Archie to her, and strode over to hug Hornblower. Captain Pellew laughed.  
  
"You'll need several hours to sort this out; I invite you all to dine with me tonight."  
  
Lady Redpath smiled demurely, her cheeks dimpling. "That would be such an honour!"  
  
Blakeney nodded, "much obliged," while his wife and the two lieutenants smiled their assent. Farmer Smith glanced aside momentarily, unsure of whether or not he was included in the invitation. Pellew strode over and offered him his hand.  
  
"I believe that I have to thank you for tending to one of my lieutenants, Mister Smith. You will dine with us, will you not?"  
  
Smith shook Pellew's hand enthusiastically, "Yes, sir, as sure as I've got two eyes in my head!"  
  
"As sure as Carling's dead!" Archie giggled.  
  
Pellew glanced about the smiling company, the two ladies, the two (his two) young lieutenants, the old blond farmer and the tall dapper aristocrat. Looking at Blakeney brought to mind his first poor impressions of him, when Blakeney had come aboard off the French ship a caricature of the most shallow, most trivial type of fop. In his subsequent actions, the man had improved immensely in his estimations. Blakeney had spared no effeort in clearing Hornblower and Kennedy from every suspision--thanks to this, Pellew forgave him everything, the frog-snatching, the possible espionage, the incident with the little dog--who then and there, as if summoned telepathically, poked her head out of Blakeney's pocket and yipped.   
  
"Franny!" Hornblower cried, and quickly flushed. The little dog yipped again happily.  
  
"Sink me," Pellew smirked, "if this don't warrant my best port!"


End file.
